


A Slice of Heaven

by Bennyhatter



Series: Anisapiens [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Animalistic, Assault, Baking, Biting, Bullying, Comfort, Feral Behavior, First Kiss, Gen, Grooming, Hunk (Voltron) is so Pure, Hybrids, Illegal Activities, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Licking, M/M, Marking, Master/Pet, Pack Dynamics, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Stress Baking, Threats, Touch-Starved, Trust Issues, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-01-25 17:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 46,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18578845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bennyhatter/pseuds/Bennyhatter
Summary: Keith is an Anisapien -- an animal/human hybrid bred for a specific purpose. His purpose? To be a fighter in illegal, underground fighting rings. He manages to escape, and is found by Hunk -- a human who doesn't want to hurt him and constantly smells like baked goods. Through Hunk, he meets Lance and Pidge, who are just as strange as the man they work for. Keith doesn't trust anything or anyone at first, especially not these humans who are so willing to take him in when they know nothing of his past. Not only do they take him in, but they accept him as one of them, grumpy temper and all.Who knew it was possible to heal someone through kindness and baking? Keith sure as hell didn't, that's for sure.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OH HEY I'M BACK.
> 
> I cannot keep my paws out of supernatural/feral tropes, friends, I'm not sure if you knew this. I love them so much. So now we get half wolf!Keith and, eventually, creature!Shiro. Because what kind of fanatic would I be if I didn't do this?
> 
> I might have a problem.
> 
> ENJOY~

_It's wet, and miserably fucking cold. He thinks it's January, but he doesn't remember; it's not like there was ever a calendar for them to keep track of the days. All he knows is that the ground is slowly turning to muck; freezing rain stings his bare arms and chills him down to the marrow._

 

_Shivering, he shoves himself back against the grimy brick wall with a little more force, trying to escape the downpour under a covered stoop that does very little to actually protect him. He wraps his arms around himself, trying to preserve what warmth he has left; tucks his fingers into his armpits and feels the bump of his ribs against his elbows through his thin shirt._

 

_He sees eyes flash in the darkness, hears the warning growl of an angry stray, and growls back. Ears pinned flat against his matted hair and tail stiff, he pulls himself up to his full height, ignores the sharp pain radiating from his hip, and snarls as loudly and as savagely as he can._

 

_The stray reevaluates her choices real quick when she smells him and bolts, tripping over the lid of a nearby garbage can. He flinches at the deafening clatter, baring his teeth at the empty darkness._

 

_“Hello? Is, uh, is someone there?”_

 

_Not so empty after all, it would seem._

 

\---

 

Warm sunlight trails across his face, glowing against his eyelids until he grumbles and rolls to face the wall. Violet eyes blink open slowly, still unfocused from sleep. After a disorienting moment where he struggles to remember where he is, he rolls onto his knees to stretch; mouth wide, tongue curling, ears flopped back and relaxed. With a satisfied little whine, he pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, shaking his whole body like a wolf that's just climbed out of a river.

 

Scratching at his stomach, he takes a moment to breathe and reorient himself with the world around him before rolling out of bed. As soon as he lands, crouched on his hands and feet, there's a gentle knock on his door.

 

“Keith? You up, buddy?”

 

_“What's your name?”_

 

_“Identification Code K31Z8265. Species, North American timber wolf. Purpose, miscellaneous.”_

 

 _The man frowns, shaking his head. “No, no, not your ID Code and stats. What's your_ name _?”_

 

_He frowns, feeling defensive and caught off-guard. “Identification Code K31Z8265,” he repeats, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. “Species, North America-”_

 

_“K31Z- You know what, how about I just call you Keith? That sounds pretty close, don't you think?”_

 

_“K...eith?” No one has ever called him anything but a weapon before._

 

_Across from him, the dark-skinned man with the gentle eyes nods enthusiastically. He smells like sugar and lemons._

 

_“Yeah, Keith!”_

 

Keith shakes the memory away with a grunt, barely remembering to call back, “Yeah, Hunk. I'm up.”

 

“Ah, good, good.” After a moment, the human tentatively asks, “Are you, uh, decent?”

 

Looking down at his loose sleeping shorts, Keith flicks an ear. He's not wearing a shirt, but Hunk has seen worse.

 

_“Dude, you are more blood and scar tissue than skin. What the hell happened to you?”_

 

_“I survived. They didn't.”_

 

“Yeah, I'm decent.”

 

The door opens wide enough for Hunk to stick his head in, already smiling and bringing the scent of butter cookies and sugared fruit with them. His smile falls a little when he sees that Keith is still in his sleepwear.

 

“Better hurry up, buddy. We gotta be there in, like, fifteen minutes. I made breakfast, though; don't forget to eat!”

 

Keith waves lazily and Hunk disappears, shutting the door gently behind him. Once he's alone, it's a matter of minutes before he's dressed and his fangs are brushed, his tail swaying lazily behind him as he lopes down the stairs and slinks into the kitchen. Despite the man always smelling like baked goods, he sees that Hunk has made a reasonable breakfast of pancakes and a plate piled high with round and link sausage. He snags a pancake, tearing into it and tasting the cinnamon sugar.

 

His tail wags.

 

_“What… is that?” He wrinkles his nose at the steaming mug._

 

_“It's hot chocolate. It'll warm you up, I promise.”_

 

_He's never had chocolate before, much less chocolate melted into a drink. He takes the mug, mindful of his claws, and sips warily. The sweet taste is almost enough to make him recoil and spit it back out, but he pauses. He tastes something else, something that mellows out the overbearing sweetness into something that he doesn't actually mind._

 

_The man -- Hunk, he'd said his name was Hunk -- is watching him eagerly. He tries not to feel threatened by the human's stare._

 

_“Well?” He sounds so hopeful._

 

_“It's… good.” It is, good enough that he takes a second sip just for another taste of that unusual flavor. “What else is in it?”_

 

_“Oh, it's cinnamon. I think it gives it a little something extra.”_

 

_He takes another mouthful, his tail twitching._

 

_“It's good,” he says with more conviction. The human was right -- it is warming._

 

_Hunk beams._

 

Hunk's Heaven is a little corner building that doubles as a bakery and sandwich shop. It opens at ten o'clock every morning except for Sundays, which means at six-thirty, the human is unlocking the side entry door and leading the way in. Keith follows behind him the same way he has every morning for the last five months, reflexively glancing around the kitchen and inhaling to make sure nothing has been disturbed. There are no scents aside from theirs, Lance, and Pidge, so Keith lets his hackles lay flat.

 

“Special of the day?” he asks over his shoulder, heading to change the sign over. Hunk lets him, and as much as he insists it isn't, Keith knows it's because the man is happy that he knows how to write at all, considering-

 

He grits his teeth to banish the thoughts that creep perpetually along the edges of his mind, snaking forward every so often to try and drag Keith back down into the screams and blood and pain.

 

“A grilled Cajun catfish panini,” Hunk calls back, rattling off the ingredients lightning-fast the way he always does when he's excited about trying something new. Keith writes it all down neatly, replacing the board on the front counter before returning to help get everything prepped and ready for opening.

 

He's finishing up cutting the lettuce and getting it into its ice-water bath when Lance shows up at nine-thirty. The man gives him a nod and a friendly smile, taking no offense when Keith huffs back rather than speaking. Pidge comes in a few minutes later, sneaking a slice of tomato while he pretends not to notice.

 

“Good morning, Keith,” she says cheerfully, her hands behind her back to hide her prize. He chuffs, arching an eyebrow and letting his ears flick back; she knows better than to think he's actually irritated, though. She gives him another sunny smile before scampering away to help Lance get the tables ready, stuffing the tomato slice into her mouth as soon as she thinks she's out of sight.

 

She's not, but he's still pretending not to notice.

 

Hunk chuckles from where he's kneading his fourth mound of dough, his arms covered with flour up to the elbows and a streak or two across his cheek.

 

“What?” Keith grumbles, eyeing him from his station. The human laughs and shakes his head, his brown eyes twinkling with mirth.

 

“Nothing, buddy. I'm just happy you guys all get along so well.”

 

_“Jesus, Hunk, are you insane? It's practically a wild animal!” Lance's voice is too loud, even through several walls._

 

 _“_ He _is not a wild animal, Lance, oh my god.” Hunk sounds annoyed, and also hurt, but Keith -- he's still getting used to that -- thinks he's entirely misguided. Lance isn't far off the mark, as far as he's concerned._

 

_“How do you know he isn't already owned, huh?!”_

 

_That makes him growl and back himself into the nearest corner, hunkering down defensively with his claws at the ready._

 

_“He didn't have a collar or a tattoo ID. Besides, even if he did -- look at him, Lance! They were awful to him!”_

 

 _“That doesn't mean you get to keep him, Hunk!_ You _look at him! He could rip your throat out and he wouldn't even feel bad, because he's an_ animal _!”_

 

“Keith?”

 

He blinks out of the memory, turning to see Lance watching him with worry and barely a shadow of the distrust he once showed openly. Setting down the knife he's been using, Keith takes a slow, steadying breath.

 

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head and pinning his ears back. “Just, uh… just one of those days, I guess.”

 

Lance makes a sympathetic noise and offers his hand, palm-up in a show of trust. Keith stares at it, his nose twitching; the man smells like spices and grass, like he'd been laying in his yard before coming to work. Keith can see his pulse in his wrist, beating slow and steady and unafraid.

 

“You want some hot chocolate before we open?” Lance asks quietly.

 

After a moment, Keith presses his nose against the man's palm and shakes his head. “Nah, I'll be alright.” He pulls away before Lance can try to scratch behind his ears; he's not ready for that kind of contact. Lance doesn't look offended, just understanding.

 

“Kitchen day, huh?”

 

Keith nods. “Unless you need me out front, I'm just gonna stay here. Think I might make some more of that sweet bread stuff Hunk showed me last week. People seemed to like that.”

 

“Yeah they did. Let me know when it's ready? I'll be your taste tester.” Lance winks and grins crookedly at him, shooting finger guns in his direction that make Keith roll his eyes. He feels a little better though, enough so that he's not clenching his jaw when he finishes the lettuce and heft the heavy tub into the fridge. Checking to make sure everything else is finished, he nods to himself and heads for the sink to wash his hands.

 

Hunk rests a comforting hand on his shoulder before he gets too far, keeping Keith in place without exerting any force and looking at him. He tries not to tense -- reminds himself that humans don't know better -- but he still breathes easier when the man drops his gaze to Keith's nose.

 

“If you need to leave, just let me know,” he offers. He's a good man, the kind of person that cares deeply about his friends. It took Keith months to realize that the offer wasn't a jab at Keith's inability to integrate; months for him to stop snarling and posturing and feeling like shit for hours afterwards when Hunk would smell like bitter cardamom and looked like Keith had told him that he'd personally killed his best friend.

 

“I will,” he says, surprised by himself that it's not even a lie. It's taken them a long time to get here, and Hunk has been nothing but patient with him. He's gone at Keith's pace, even when it was barely a crawl, and he never complained.

 

Sometimes, Keith thinks that if he were the complacent type, he wouldn't have minded having Hunk as an Owner. He is not, nor has he ever been, complacent, but that's perfectly fine; Hunk makes a better roommate anyway.

 

\--

 

It never ceases to surprise him just how busy Hunk's little almost-café is. From the moment they open until about half an hour before they close at seven o'clock, the doors are constantly swinging open and shut after customers. Clay Canyon isn't a large town by any means; most, if not all, of the population visits Hunk's Heaven at least three times a week. It's the only way Keith has learned who everyone is, because with him spending most of his time in the kitchen preparing the food with Hunk, he'd never tried to memorize the names and faces.

 

The grilled Cajun catfish panini is a huge hit, though Keith had figured it would be. Out in the desert, with nothing but sand and redstone as far as the eye can see, anything new is an exciting novelty. The townsfolk are eager to give it a try, and when they pair it with Pidge's seasoned fries, there's barely a crumb left on the plates and baskets that come back for washing.

 

Despite the non-stop line of customers, Keith has noticed that the human friends have their own method to ensure that no one leaves unsatisfied. They work quickly and efficiently, though with Keith grilling and plating just as often as Hunk, they move even quicker. It's a soothing repetition, and the sounds of the kitchen help him to block out the loud chatter from the diners. The others never force him to interact with anyone, and for that, Keith is grateful.

 

No one really enjoys dealing with an Anisapien, anyway. At least, not one that looks like Keith. Plenty of Owners bring their pets into Hunk's restaurant, but they're all domesticated creatures; soft and pampered with sleek fur and quiet, obedient personalities. They're Helpers, bred to be submissive and trained from birth to match the families that will adopt them. Plenty are spoiled -- Keith can see their bedazzled collars and smell their floral shampoo even from the kitchen. He knows they can see him too, and it gives him a twisted feeling of satisfaction to watch them shrink and duck away from the wolf's burning stare.

 

It's another reason he prefers to stay in the kitchen. The last thing he wants to do is cause trouble for Hunk with his customers and their Anisapien pets. As far as they're aware, Keith is a rescue the man picked up at the shelter.

 

Not that it's any of their business. The less they know, the better.

 

“Two catfish paninis, three fries, and four slices of Decadence!” Lance calls through the window. Keith glances at Hunk, sees that he's already up to his wrists in marinated catfish fillets, and strips off his gloves. He washes his hands quickly and heads for the fridge, carefully pulling out the triple layer chocolate and raspberry torte that Hunk, appropriately, calls Heaven's Decadence. It's not far from the truth, Keith has to admit, even if he's not a fan of most sweet things.

 

Carefully cutting the slices and plating them, he drizzles raspberry puree over top and adds a healthy spoonful of whipped cream to each one. A sprig of mint finishes it off, and he's very careful when he carries them back to the order window, where Lance has watched the entire process with a smile.

 

“Hey, you're getting really good at this,” he says once Keith has the plates lined up for him to take. He blinks, his ears flicking back uncertainly.

 

“Don't make fun of me,” he growls, uncomfortable at being called out for anything. “Hunk makes 'em better anyway,” he adds after a moment, trying to soften his words. He doesn't always mean to snap. These humans just have a habit of making him feel caught off-guard.

 

“Yeah, but Hunk's been doing this since he was, like, two.” Lance snorts, and Keith relaxes by degrees once he realizes that he's not going to suffer any retaliation. He would have, a few months ago. There have been several times since they've met that Hunk has had to send both Keith and Lance to opposite sides of the restaurant before a fight broke out. Most of those were Keith's fault and he knows it, but all of them were his overreaction to some snide remark from Lance.

 

“You really are getting better at this, Keith,” Lance says quietly, sparing a few more seconds to give him an approving nod before he's loading the plates onto his server's tray and carrying them out to their table.

 

Keith watches him go, wondering if Lance means the food, his integration, or both.

 

“Keith, can you spare a second?” Hunk calls, and he focuses on more important tasks, letting his confusion fade into the shadowed corners of his thoughts.

 

\---

 

By the time seven o'clock rolls around, Keith feels a strange mixture of exhaustion and restlessness. He helps wipe down the tables and chairs and wash the last of the dishes, keeping quiet while the others chatter around him. They don't try to pull him into the conversation, but he doesn't feel excluded; they know he prefers to listen and watch rather than participating.

 

“Good job today, you guys,” Hunk says happily, untying the yellow band around his head that he uses to keep sweat from getting in his eyes. He folds it carefully and tucks it into his pocket while Keith watches, his claws dragging distractedly against his pants. He knows that Hunk can see him, but the man is patient while Keith tries to figure out his thoughts.

 

“Can I go out tonight?”

 

He shies away from his own words, ears drooping back and tail pressing against the inside of his calf. Normally he doesn't like to ask -- Hunk isn't his Owner, _nobody_ owns him, not anymore -- but he knows that the rest of the town sees it differently.

 

An Anisapien found wandering without their Owner present, or some indication of Ownership, is liable to be picked up and either scanned for an Identification Code so they can be returned, or taken to the shelter until the Owner is found. If they're Ownerless, they're put up for adoption after temperament testing.

 

The thought of it makes Keith grind his teeth to keep from growling. He wants to go out and run, to burn away the itch beneath his skin, but he knows what that means. Hunk does too; the human watching him, guilt turning his scent smoky.

 

“Of course you can,” he says, pulling off his apron and tossing it toward the laundry bin. “Let me just finish closing up, and we can head home so you can change.”

 

Keith nods, digging his claws into the rough pads that cover his palms. Lance and Pidge watch the exchange with the same guilty sorrow radiating off of them, souring the air until he has to bite his tongue to keep from snapping.

 

Thankfully, it doesn't take long to finish cleaning up. Hunk is incredibly fastidious about keeping his kitchen clean, a compulsion that has rubbed off on Keith, so there isn't much left to do once the dining room is swept and the windows and door have been wiped down.

 

“You still thinking of hiring another body or two?” Lance asks while Hunk is locking up behind them.

 

“With how busy it's staying, I don't really have a choice. Which, hey, I'm not complaining, like, at all. I'll probably put up a sign by Friday or something.” Hunk glances toward him, but Keith is pretending to watch the cars driving by.

 

“I can make something for you,” Pidge offers, her honey-colored eyes bright and eager. “You know I love doing that kind of stuff.”

 

Hunk laughs, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Sure, sure! You always make it look _awesome._ ”

 

“Thanks!”

 

They wave as they leave and Keith watches them go, content to stay quiet until Hunk clears his throat and leads the way back to the apartment. He follows the human, keeping his head down to avoid the stares he knows are being thrown their way, mingled curiosity and something else dragging across his skin like a physical touch that makes his hackles bristle.

 

Clay Canyon isn't a big town; almost everyone knows everyone else. Even the truck drivers and tourists become regulars after they've passed through more than twice -- at least, according to Hunk. For being so small, they get plenty of business thanks to their proximity to the nearby military training base.

 

When Keith had heard about the Garrison, he almost bolted then and there. The last thing he needed, or _wanted_ , was to be anywhere close to a place that trained humans to be flyers and killers, and trained Anisapiens to throw themselves in front of a bullet to save their Handlers. He sees the soldiers and cadets in town from time to time, and always makes sure to give them a wide berth. Hunk has always watched his evasive behavior with a frown, but hasn't tried to push for answers.

 

Sometimes, Keith can't believe there are actually humans like him in the world. Or maybe there isn't. Maybe Hunk, and Pidge, and even Lance when he's not trying to rile Keith up, are anomalies amongst their species.

 

The closer they get to home, the more guilty Hunk smells. Keith wants to tell him that it's not his fault, that he isn't mad at _Hunk_ , but the words stay stuck in his throat. By the time they're through the door, he's ready to run just to get the smell of charred wood out of his nose. He changes quickly into baggy shorts and a red hoodie that quickly became his favorite comfort after Hunk offered it; padding barefoot on silent feet toward the tiny main room once he's dressed.

 

Hunk is staring down at a strip of leather in his hands, looking like he'd rather hurl it out the window than anything else. When Keith chuffs quietly, he looks up and takes a deep, steadying breath.

 

“If there were any other way…” The human trails off, looking close to tears. His endless kindness warms the cold place in Keith's chest, thawing him enough that he offers a small grimace they both pretend is a smile.

 

“I know,” he promises, moving closer and gathering his dark brown hair into a messy bun to hold it out of the way. It's getting long again, almost hanging past his shoulders. Maybe he'll try to cut it soon.

 

“I'm sorry,” Hunk whispers, moving with exaggerated slowness so as not to startle Keith while he buckles the collar around his throat. It's a simple piece, dark tan with Keith's Identification Code, his nickname, and Hunk's name all etched into the leather. The buckle jingles until it's fastened, feeling cold enough to burn his nape. As soon as it's in place, he closes his eyes and breathes through the _ragefearhatred_ that roils in his chest.

 

“Time limit?” he asks through clenched teeth.

 

“No limit.” Hunk shakes his head and quickly steps away, looking like he's about to be sick. “Just, uh. Just come back when you're ready. If anyone gives you trouble, tell them I gave you the f-freedom to, uh, to roam.”

 

Keith nods tightly. “Thank you, Hunk.” He turns away, pauses, and turns back to the human. Before Hunk can ask what's wrong, or if he's changed his mind because of the collar, Keith presses his head to one broad shoulder and nuzzles. It's a quick nudge, but affectionate, his ears and tail relaxed. “Thank you,” he says again, warmer this time, and then he's out the door without waiting for a reaction.

 

Living in the desert means that sand gets _everywhere_. It coats the street and gives the buildings and windows a fine layer of red dust. Keith feels it beneath his feet as he runs down the stairs; tastes it in the back of his throat every time he opens his mouth to breathe. It makes his clothes gritty and stings his eyes when the wind blows too hard, but it doesn't bother him nearly as much as blood beneath his claws or flesh between his teeth.

 

No one tries to stop him while he lopes down the sidewalk, heading toward the outskirts of town. Almost everyone knows him by now -- Hunk's quiet wolf rescue -- but with his collar on, they have no reason to stop him. As much as he hates the feeling of it around his throat, it does serve a purpose. It lets him move through the streets unaccosted. Once he's past the last of the buildings, nothing but miles of sand and dunes stretching out ahead of him, Keith drops down onto all fours and runs.

 

The sand is still warm from the fading sun, though the air is cooling fast. It won't be too bad for a little while at least, so he enjoys the constant shift beneath his padded feet and hands; follows lizard and snake trails with no real intent and climbs natural formations of boulders when he comes across them.

 

Five miles to the east is the canyon the town was named after. Twenty miles southwest is the Garrison. After that, there's nothing for hours in any direction. If Keith really, _really_ wanted to, he could disappear and never be found. He'd be just another lost Anisapien, assumed dead unless someone managed to catch him. If they did, they'd look up his Code and realize that he never belonged to anyone named “Hunk”.

 

Keith is good at surviving. He's survived his entire life despite every attempt others have made to end it. If he vanished into the desert, no one would ever find him. His instincts have always been strong; he can survive a hell of a lot easier than any domesticated Anisapien.

 

He _could_ , but he can't do that to Hunk. Not after everything the human has done for him since the night he found Keith and scrambled to take care of him instead of calling the authorities.

 

Panting, he slows to a stop and stands up, looking over the wide mouth of the canyon. At the bottom, he sees the tiny ribbon of the river that winds through, licking his lips but not bothering to climb down. It's two miles to the bottom with nothing but questionable foot- and hand-holds. His eyesight is better than a human's, but the thought of freeclimbing doesn't appeal to him tonight. Keith roams along the edge instead, his mottled gray-black ears twitching; listening to the sounds of the nocturnal creatures as they rouse from their sleep.

 

A coyote heckles in the distance, several others howling and barking back. Keith howls too, letting them know another predator is close, and knows by the answering silence that they've taken off. It makes him grin, but he doesn't pursue. As fun as it might be to antagonize them, he's not looking for a fight.

 

The moon is a burnt orange crescent creeping into place amongst the stars by the time Keith turns back toward the town. His loping strides eat up the distance easily, even if he's in no rush to return. The restless itch has been appeased, if nothing else, so he can return knowing that he won't drive Hunk up the wall by using his furniture as a jungle gym. He might even get a decent night of sleep.

 

Just outside of town, Keith slows to a stop. His hackles bristle, the feeling of being watched chasing away the relaxation he's managed to achieve. Looking around, he growls quietly, his tail stiff and his ears pinned back before they flick forward; quivering to try and catch any sound that seems out of the ordinary. He breathes in deeply, but only smells the usual town-scent he's come to associate Clay Canyon by.

 

The feeling persists until he's inside the apartment building, but the unease lingers. He takes the stairs two at a time, constantly looking over his shoulder and straining his hearing, but he's not being followed. Trying to shake it off, he attempts to re-find the peace running brought him, but it's been tainted. Growling angrily, he shakes himself and scratches at Hunk's door.

 

Hunk looks and smells like surprised relief; he always does when Keith comes back. He's quick to reach up and unbuckle the collar, and Keith breathes easier as soon as it's gone.

 

“Did you have fun?” Hunk asks, his voice muffled by the cabinet he's rooting through; getting rid of the collar until they're forced to need it again.

 

Keith scratches at an ear, eyeing the closest window warily. “Yeah. Might go climbing down the canyon next time; it looks like fun.”

 

“Just be careful, buddy. I'll totally freak out if you get hurt.” And the thing is, Hunk says it so _earnestly_ , with no trace of a lie in his scent. It really will scare him if Keith gets hurt.

 

He's still not used to that.

 

“I'll be careful, Hunk,” he promises. This time, his smile is a little more natural, and Hunk beams back at him.

 

“Cool, that's great. Thanks, man. You gonna shower before bed?”

 

Keith looks down at his sand-covered clothes, at the red dust on his hands and feet. As much as he'd like to curl up and force himself to forget about the feeling of unknown eyes on him, he knows he should clean himself up first.

 

He sighs. “Yeah. I'll be quick.”

 

“Hey, don't worry about it. Take your time, okay?” Hunk reaches out to pat his shoulder, waiting for Keith to relax before making contact. “Enjoy yourself,” he says, coaxing, so Keith nods.

 

“I will.” He glances toward the window again, but nothing moves in the darkness. “See you in the morning then, I guess.”

 

“Yup! Sleep well, Keith.”

 

No one ever wished him pleasant dreams before Hunk. No one did anything kind to him before this human, with his love of baking and passion for making new recipes that shouldn't work but somehow _do._

 

Is this what friendship feels like?

 

“You too, Hunk,” Keith murmurs. He hesitates, his ears flicking back, and then nudges the man's shoulder quickly before vanishing into the bathroom.

 

Hunk smells like sugary fruit and butter cookies when he's happy. It's a lot better than the smoky, charred stench of guilt and regret.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some newcomers visit Hunk's Heaven.
> 
> It's basically a disaster.

Sometimes, Keith isn't sure that Hunk's Heaven could possibly get any busier than it already is. Thankfully, between the four of them, they manage to keep things running pretty smoothly most days. Hunk wants to hire a few more people, and Keith recognizes that it's a wise decision, but the thought of adding strangers to their odd little group leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Strangers means questions, and he's tired of hearing people ask Hunk where he got Keith and why he doesn't wear a collar. Pidge and Lance know the truth, and they've sworn never to tell. But no matter how easily Hunk's earnest charm can disarm the most curious of souls, one day someone is going to get too curious. They're going to look further and realize that Keith never spent any time in a shelter, or they're going to see his scars and want to know _more_.

 

So, no -- Keith isn't looking forward to having more people so close to him. Not when he's still struggling to be comfortable with the humans he already spends most of his time with.

 

The problem with there being only four of them to keep a restaurant going in a moderately busy town, is Saturday. Every Saturday, over half of the Garrison overtakes Clay Canyon -- it's their one free day of the week. Cadets and officers roam in packs, enjoying twenty-four hours of freedom and determined to spend whatever money they have in their pockets.

 

A lot of them spend that money at Hunk's Heaven, hungry for a home-cooked meal that won't leave a bland aftertaste in their mouths; a meal that will stick to their ribs and be worth every scent they pay for the experience.

 

Keith hates Saturdays.

 

\---

 

Lance's face appears in the order window. “I need ten fries!”

 

“It's gonna be a minute!” Pidge yells back, cutting and seasoning potatoes as quickly as she can without hurting herself. Keith is getting the orders that are already prepped through the friers; coating the hot, glistening fries in the rest of the seasoning as soon as they're out and tossing them to blend it all before dumping the orders in their baskets and shoving them through to Lance. The human nods his thanks, looking a little wild around the eyes. Keith doesn't blame him; it's been non-stop for almost two hours now. His hackles are bristling, a headache screaming across his temples from how tightly he's clenching his jaw.

 

Part of it is the stress of a busy day. The other part of it is the Garrison-Owned Anisapiens filling the dining room with their combined scents. So many predators beneath one roof has Keith on edge, tension radiating from him in waves he knows must be palpable, if the looks the others are giving him is any indication.

 

“Four Sprout Specials and a bowl of clam bisque!” Lance calls barely a minute later, his voice strained and starting to sound hoarse.

 

“Got it!” Hunk is already plating the stuffed brussel sprouts, a pot of creamy white sauce staying warm on the back of the flat-top stove, just waiting to be ladled over top of the dish. Keith gets the soup ready for him, wiping his hands on his apron so he doesn't smear fry seasoning all over the yellow bowls. He's carefully setting the bowl on its saucer, reaching for the basket of oyster cracker packets to add a few, when he hears Lance call to someone he's spotted in the crowd.

 

“Hey! Allura! Help a friend out?!”

 

Hunk looks up from his plating, grinning widely. “Oh, hey, Allura's here? That's totally awesome!”

 

“Yeah!” Pidge agrees, still cutting potatoes so quickly that her hands are almost a blur. “Let's say hi _after_ we're finished being wrung for every scrap we've got!”

 

Keith agrees, but keeps it to himself. His exhaustion is bone-deep, and the headache is doing nothing to improve his disposition. It's been a few days since he asked to go out and roam, but tonight might just have to be another trip out into the desert to forget the hellstorm that this day has been.

 

It's not even one o'clock yet.

 

A scent reaches him through the kitchen aromas, jarring when he breathes in deeply. It's paired with the burning feeling of being watched, a feeling that's been with him since his run on Monday. It's so much stronger now -- nearly overwhelming. Hesitating, Keith opens his mouth and breathes in until his lungs strain from it, tasting _danger_ like ozone on his tongue.

 

The bowl and plate he's holding shatter against the ground when he realizes what the scent belongs to.

 

_Alpha Fighter._

 

Pidge yelps in surprise when Keith bodily shoves her to the ground behind the table, her knife spinning out of reach across the floor when she drops it. He almost knocks her glasses askew, but Keith doesn't waste time trying to apologize or fix them. He's already leaping up onto the table to snarl at the creature standing just inside the side door.

 

The first thing Keith realizes is that he's _massive._ Broad-shouldered and thick with muscle, his head almost touching the top of the doorway because he's so tall. Dark gray eyes are fixated on Keith, sharp and _interested._ His dark hair is cut close to his scalp aside from a messy white tuft of bangs; rounded ears twitch in his direction when Keith bares his teeth and growls. There's a split second between him sizing up the Alpha Fighter and leaping for his throat, Hunk's startled shout drowned out by the roar of memories through his head.

 

A big, gloved hand catches him by the collar of his shirt like he weighs nothing, throwing Keith against the closest wall and pinning him there with his feet several inches off the ground. He snarls and claws at the forearm in front of him; brings his feet up and wishes he wasn't wearing shoes when he kicks at the Anisapien's stomach. The Fighter doesn't even flinch, baring the thickest, longest fangs Keith has ever seen and roaring in his face. His knuckles grind against Keith's collarbone hard enough to bruise, and the pain makes him snarl savagely; his teeth snapping at the strong, square jaw just out of his reach.

 

“Shiro, release him!”

 

Keith's knees buckle from the shock of being dropped so suddenly, but he refuses to kneel. He's still snarling, lunging after the lion when he backs away and hitting his hip against the corner of the table when the Alpha Fighter sidesteps faster than he's expecting him to.

 

"Keith!" Hunk yells, dragging him back and bracing himself when Keith fights against the restrictive arm around his chest. Hunk is a tank when he wants to be, using his size and weight to his advantage. It shouldn't matter, Keith was bred to be stronger and faster, but apparently no one told Hunk that, because he doesn't budge.

 

"Keith. Hey, Keith, it's okay. Breathe for me, alright?" The human is speaking to him quietly, trying to soothe him, but Keith doesn't want to be soothed. He wants the Fighter to _leave_ , but the lion isn't even looking at him anymore. He's looking at the door that leads to the front of the restaurant, his ears drooping and his long, dark tail twitching.

 

He looks _sheepish_.

 

The woman he's looking at is tall and dark-skinned, with crystal blue eyes that are narrowed. She smells angry, her arms crossed against her chest and her stiff posture making her look far more formidable than Keith is used to seeing from a human.

 

"What is the meaning of this?" she demands, and there's no hiding the command in her voice. It's an order posed as a question, and she wants answers.

 

"It was my fault," the Fighter says quickly, and _that_ makes Keith stop struggling. He stares at the man, shocked silent, but Hunk knows better than to let go of him just yet.

 

The woman waits, arching a slim white eyebrow. Her long white hair is wrapped into a braided bun, a few loose curls framing her feline face. Considering the suit and the officer's jacket she's wearing -- and the men flanking her with their hands resting on their holstered guns -- Keith guesses that she's from the Garrison.

 

"I didn't announce my presence, ma'am." The Anisapien's sheepishness turns to guilt, his ears drooping even further. "I should have let them know I was here rather than letting them be caught off-guard."

 

"Hunk," the officer says coolly, her accent clearly not Southern or American, "who is this young creature?"

 

"My name is Keith," he growls, drawing her attention and glaring at her without fear. He doesn't give a shit who she is or where she comes from -- she holds no power over him. "What the fuck is he doing here?" He doesn't point, but he doesn't need to; the Fighter winces like Keith has sunk claws into him.

 

"Shiro is my friend," the woman replies, her words sharp but her eyes turning curious. "Are you Hunk's friend?" She looks past him to the human in question. "You didn't tell me you'd adopted an Anisapien. I thought you were completely against Ownership?"

 

"I am!" Hunk blurts out, letting go of Keith when the wolf nudges him gently. He turns to look at the human, making sure to keep the Alpha Fighter in his periphery in case of attack. There's no scent of violence in the kitchen, and the dining room sounds almost unnaturally quiet after the chaos of the last few hours. Lance is watching them through the window, his tan skin almost unnaturally pale and his eyes wide.

 

"And yet, you own one." She looks even more confused; her friends grip their guns a little tighter when Keith snarls.

 

" _No one_ owns me," he spits over his shoulder, vaulting over the table to check that Pidge isn't hurt from his earlier roughness. The lion takes a step closer, stopping quickly when Keith snarls to warn him away.

 

"He needed help," Hunk explains, looking frazzled and close to tears. "He was hurt really badly; I couldn't just leave him to freeze."

 

Blue eyes turn toward Keith again. "And you stayed?" she asks, before quickly shaking her hand as if to brush off the question. "What was your purpose before Hunk found you?"

 

"Miscellaneous," Keith grunts, crossing his arms and staring her down in a direct challenge. She looks surprised, like he knew she would.

 

"But you were a Fighter?"

 

He pins his ears flat against his skull. "Who says I was?"

 

"You reacted like one," her Anisapien replies. Keith can see the simple dark collar around his throat and curls his lip. "When you saw me, you reacted exactly like a Fighter would."

 

"I'm so sorry about that, Allura." Hunk clasps his hands together like he's ready to beg for her forgiveness. "Keith isn't good with other Anisapiens. I didn't realize _you_ had one, or I would have said something. I thought you were opposed to Ownership too?"

 

The woman -- Allura -- shakes her head. "I do not own Shiro, though I understand the collar makes it look otherwise." She gestures to Shiro, who tilts his head for them to see it better. He's so unconcerned about offering his jugular to a room full of strangers; it's like he thinks he's got nothing to fear from them.

 

Keith chuffs derisively.

 

"So, you… what? Found him the way I found Keith?" Hunk guesses. "Man, what are the odds?"

 

His words make Allura smile. "On the contrary, my father rescued him from a fighting pit; Shiro had been the standing Champion for months there. We wanted to rehabilitate him, to prove that Anisapiens are more than just the purpose they were bred for. If we could prove that, we could make sure that survivors taken from the pits and rings will get the help they need, rather than just being destroyed."

 

"You can't change a Fighter's nature," Keith snaps. Allura fixes him with a cold stare, one he's sure would cow a weaker spirit than his.

 

"Hunk was able to rehabilitate you," she points out.

 

"Yeah," he agrees, even though he's nowhere close to _rehabilitated,_ "but I'm not a Fighter."

 

"And yet, you fight like one," Shiro says quietly. Keith growls at him, but the Fighter lifts his palms in a show of peace. "You lived in those rings," he continues earnestly. "If you're still alive, that means you _fought_ in them, and you _won_. The defeated _die._ " His lip curls, his gray eyes darkened by painful memories that turn his scent sour and biting.

 

"If there's a chance for you, why can't I have the same?"

 

"Because you were _bred_ for this, and I _wasn't_!" Keith snarls. "I didn't have a _choice_!"

 

Shiro looks at him evenly, calmly. "Neither did I. I didn't ask for this any more than you did. All I'm asking for now is the chance to prove that a purpose doesn't have to define who you are. Purposes can change."

 

"Shiro is not a violent creature," Allura says gently, pulling Keith's attention back to her. "He doesn't like to fight unless he absolutely must. When you went after him, did he try to hurt you at all?"

 

All Shiro had done was pin him and roar in his face. He hadn't once tried to claw or bite. With fangs like his, and his sheer size, he could have killed Keith before anyone could stop him. "No," he admits, flicking his ears back uncertainly.

 

"It's that proof in itself?" she stresses. "That an Alpha Fighter, someone supposedly _born_ to kill, wouldn't kill at the first opportunity?

 

"Keith, I'm not saying they're all going to be like Shiro. But they deserve just as much of a chance as anyone else -- _more_ of one, I think. It's easy to be trained as a Helper, or a Caretaker. It's easy to be Miscellaneous, I'm sure. But a Fighter? That comes with its own stereotype, just like you being Miscellaneous does. People expect something from you, and assume you can't be anything else. And that is _not_ fair."

 

Keith lets that sink in, chewing the inside of his lip. Hunk squeezes his shoulder gently, giving him his space to sort through the thoughts churning messily through his skull.

 

"Come on, guys, lets shut down early today. I'm assuming your guys already cleared the place, Allura?"

 

Allura nods, looking guilty. "When I heard the fight, I figured caution was the safer route. We will help you clean up, and pay for whatever needs covered. Consider it my apology."

 

Hunk laughs and shakes his head. "Don't worry about it. I'll just have to reimburse everyone who got booted before they got to eat."

 

If anything, Allura looks even more sheepish than before. "It's been taken care of."

 

Keith shakes his head in disbelief. "Who are you, anyway? You some hot-shot from the Garrison?"

 

"I am not," the woman replies, "though I suppose my uniform _is_ a bit misleading." Her smile is charming and sweet, her expression so open and genuine that it's hard to imagine how she could ever look frightening. If Keith hadn't seen her so cold before, he wouldn't believe it was possible. "My father and I are part of a team determined to prove that Anisapiens are no different than us, physical characteristics non-withstanding. We're doing our best to break up the fighting rings, and rescue Anisapiens from abusive homes. We take them from shelters and help them to heal, and then we give them jobs that _they_ choose."

 

"Free will," Keith whispers, stunned. "You're giving them free will."

 

"We're not _giving_ them anything." Allura smiles at Shiro and the lion smiles back warmly. "We are simply showing them that it was in them all along." She looks at Keith with fire in her eyes, so fiercely dedicated to her dream that it leaves him breathless.

 

"One day, we will all live freely, in harmony. And I will do whatever it takes to help get us there."

 

\---

 

The river is much bigger once he climbs to the bottom of the canyon. Keith had figured it would be, but the size of it is still startling up close. Thanks to his padded hands and soles, freeclimbing isn't as painful as it would be for Hunk or any of the other humans. He'd barely felt the scrape of the rocks when he picked his way down, and now he looks back up the canyon wall and smiles to himself.

 

The rock beneath his feet is still surprisingly warm, though the air is taking on a familiar chill now that the sun has set. He lopes closer to the river to get a better look and sees fish resting along the riverbed. The water is clear, and refreshingly cold when he dips his fingers in to test the temperature. He crouches low to lap some up, letting it wash the taste of dust and sourness from his mouth. It tastes amazing, lacking the metallic taste the town's water has from sitting in pipes.

 

Groaning, the wolf stretches slowly, arching his back and feeling his vertebrae pop, his muscles pull; the rush of relief as his tension works itself out until he's loose-limbed and calmer than he's been all afternoon.

 

Hunk has decided to hire Allura and Shiro. They're clearly old friends, even if Keith hasn't seen the woman once in the sixth months he's known the human who risked a lot to help him. Allura has made a point to remind him at least twice -- as if Keith isn't aware of exactly what Hunk has done for him, and how much trouble he'll be in if anyone realizes that he's taken in an Anisapien that isn't his. Pidge has done an excellent job forging the documents -- another federal offense -- but if anyone looks deeper than that, everything is going to unravel.

 

Despite their tense first meeting, he likes Allura well enough. He likes what she's trying to do, even if he thinks it's a pipe dream that will never come to pass. Too many people are content to own creatures like Keith; either for the novelty of it, the exotic nature of the species they choose, or because having someone take care of them who can't, or won't, talk back is much easier than the alternative.

 

Digging his claws into the sand, Keith growls quietly at the thought, anger sparking through his veins.

 

_"You think you'll ever be free? Oh, puppy, you're just adorable. You can never escape this."_

 

 _"Fuck! The little fucker_ bit _me!"_

 

_"So reprimand him. No one likes a pet that's ungrateful toward the hand that feeds it."_

 

Shaking his head so hard it hurts, he snarls; tries to toss the memories away as easily as sand. He smacks at the surface of the water, startling the fish and splattering water everywhere.

 

"Fuckin' shit," he seethes.

 

Allura might be able to earn his trust the way Hunk and the others have, but Keith holds no such faith in Shiro. He understands what Allura is trying to do. He _wants_ her to succeed, if only so he can live on his own without the _fucking_ collar he can feel like a cage around his throat. But working in close proximity to a Fighter, much less an _Alpha Fighter_ , is not something he's even remotely looking forward to.

 

Keith has fought plenty of Beta Fighters. They're smaller than creatures like Shiro, not as aggressive, but two of them still came the closest to killing Keith. The scars itch beneath his clothes, them and every single other one he's earned. Trophies of his survival, for all that he hates the sight of them.

 

Shiro has a scar across his face, he remembers. Thick and wide, cutting across his nose and stretching onto his cheeks. Whatever did that was either just as big as the lion, or a hell of a lot faster. He must be covered in more scars than Keith is, but he'd been wearing pants and a long-sleeved shirt. And gloves.

 

Who wears gloves in the desert in _July?_ Keith is miserable in his work pants, and he spends most of his day in the kitchen. At least he still gets to wear a short-sleeved shirt, and outside of work he can wear whatever the fuck he wants. To be covered from neck to soles, though?

 

It's unusual, for an Anisapien. Keith hasn't met many of their kind who enjoyed wearing so much restrictive clothing. It's another point against the Fighter, even if it's a weaker one. Still…

 

There's definitely something _unusual_ about the lion. He'd been so restrained, almost submissive. Painfully earnest, for sure. It was like all he wanted was to put them all at ease, to prove that he wasn't a threat. The humans were quick to accept Shiro, asking questions and welcoming him because Allura called him her friend, and she was _their_ friend. But she's not _Keith's_ friend, and after everything, he's not so eager to just blindly welcome a beast that could tear his heart out of his chest with little effort, or rip through his jugular like it's tissue paper.

 

Shuddering, he rolls onto his back to look up at the moon, resting a hand protectively on his stomach. His tail is a comforting weight against his hip, though laying on it isn't entirely pleasant. He drags his fingers through his fur, combing out tangles and working out a few knots where thin twigs have gotten snared. The tip of his tail and ears are brown, but the rest is a mottled gray-black, exactly like an actual wolf's.

 

Shiro's ears and tail are black. Few of the lion Anisapiens Keith has come across had such dark fur. It's not incredibly common -- most of them have coloring that's fairly close to their natural species.

 

It's petty, Keith knows that it is, but it's another mark against the Fighter. He's huge, he's _weird_ , and his fur isn't right. His bangs are strange too, because Shiro isn't old enough to be going white. It makes him look like a skunk, a thought that fills Keith with an ugly kind of satisfaction.

 

It's well past sunset by the time he's finished venting soundlessly into the growing dark. Climbing back up the canyon is a lot easier when he can see where he's putting his hands and feet; his night vision doesn't hurt either. The wind tugs at his clothes and chills his face, but it's nice. He's always liked feeling the wind -- more so after running from a place where the only things his skin ever knew were pain and blood.

 

Pulling himself up over the side, Keith tenses when he sees Shiro watching him, the lion's dark eyes reflecting the moonlight until they glow. The Fighter is sitting cross-legged n the sand, his shoulders curled in to make himself look smaller.

 

"I'm not here to hurt you," he says by way of greeting. Keith grunts.

 

"What do you want, then?"

 

Shiro scratches at the back of his head, his ears drooping back and his scent mild; he smells like ginger, bitter and sad.

 

"I wanted to apologize." His voice is quiet, but Keith has no issue hearing him. He has more trouble believing him, even if Shiro's heartbeat never stutters, and his scent never fluctuates.

 

"For what?" He knows he's being aggressive, his shoulders squared and his fingers twitching, but the Fighter doesn't respond to the clear challenge. He acknowledges it, but that only makes the ginger scent of his sorrow stronger. Keith covers his nose with his hoodie sleeve to block out the worst of it.

 

Shiro sighs, rubbing his face with a gloved hand. Keith eyes it but says nothing. Neither of them do, even though he's not subtle.

 

"I know you don't want me here," Shiro starts. Stops and frowns, sighing heavily again. "I don't blame you," he continues after a moment, looking up at Keith; he hasn't tried to assert the dominance Keith can smell rolling off of him. Creatures like Shiro do not submit to _anyone_. It's costing him to do it now, even if he's hiding the fact behind a poker face that Keith is grudgingly impressed by.

 

 _Try,_ Hunk had implored before Keith left on his run. _Please, Keith. I'm not saying you have to be besties and, like, make each other friendship flower crowns. Just, give him a chance? Allura said he's been through hell, just like you have._

 

"To be fair," Keith mutters, glaring off to the side so he doesn't have to keep staring at Shiro's kicked-puppy expression, "I don't get along well with, like, anyone. I'm not exactly great with people. Or anything else."

 

"You're not pack-minded?" Shiro asks curiously. Keith grits his teeth.

 

"Of course I am. I just don't really _connect_ with others easily. Never really had the chance to, considering."

 

"Considering," Shiro echoes quietly. When Keith glances at him, the lion is smiling like he _understands,_ warm and soft in a way Keith is unfamiliar with. It makes his skin prickle, so he shakes himself to get rid of the feeling and starts loping back toward the town. He hears Shiro get up, his hackles bristling in response.

 

They don't lay flat again until Shiro roams into view beside him, several yards of sand between them. He seems content to follow at Keith's pace, keeping up with ease now matter how fast the wolf runs, or what random, looping trails he takes. He clearly knows what Keith is doing, but he just smiles benignly and lets himself be led, never once complaining or trying to bully Keith into going another direction.

 

By the time they make it back to town, Keith is more confused and frustrated than ever. He growls when Shiro acts like he's going to keep following, his ears pinned back and his teeth bared in warning. The Fighter stops, his hands relaxed by his sides and that peculiar smile still curling his lips.

 

"Good night, Keith," he says softly. Keith huffs at him, his tail partially raised, and stalks away before things can get any more frustrating and confusing than they already are.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith and Hunk share some bonding time together, and Allura and Shiro start working at Hunk's Heaven.
> 
> Keith is bad at Feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are amazing and I love you so much. Have some more flailing awkwardness.

The apartment he shares with Hunk isn't incredibly spacious -- it didn't need to be, when the man was living by himself. Since he took Keith in, it hasn't really changed much; the wolf has always made sure not to take up too much space. He took the small room that had been empty aside for a few boxes, making his nest in what open floor there was and refusing to let Hunk try and make more room. At first it was because that felt too much like being owned by this strange human who nearly cried when he realized how injured Keith was. As he healed, his violent suspicion turned to distrustful wariness. Now he isn't entirely sure where they stand. If things were _different,_ Keith thinks that maybe they would be friends. If they were both human, then maybe-

 

But they're not. No matter how they want to look at it, an Anisapien is still lesser. They don't look like humans, so they'll never pass for one. Breeds like Keith and Shiro have their ears and tails and feral natures, few things about them soft and weak. Not every Anisapien that shares a species looks the same; Keith has met hybrids with fur, and birds with brightly colored feathers through their hair. Eyes the color of jewels, fangs so long they touched the lower lip -- tusks, padded palms and feet, _horns._

 

No one will ever be able to look at one of them and see the human side, no matter what they do. As far as most people are concerned, they're a sub-species, something scientists tried for fun with no idea just how popular the experiment would turn out to be.

 

They're not _natural._

 

"You're really quiet today."

 

Hunk's voice is light, an offer there that is Keith's to accept or deny with no negative repercussions either way. He looks up from the fifth mound of dough he's made since he woke up, kneading it carefully to keep from ruining it with his claws.

 

"Didn't sleep well," he mutters, looking back down at the lump that will hopefully become more loaves of bread soon. Hunk's apartment might not be very big, but he clearly picked his home because of the kitchen. There's ample space for cooling racks, and the appliances are so new they gleam. The counter is some kind of dark faux granite, the cabinets a rich mahogany; Keith isn't entirely sure the human didn't install half of the things himself just to make sure he had exactly what he wanted.

 

"I can see that." Hunk breathes in deeply and moans, wandering toward several loaves of bread that are already mostly cooled. Keith has made a variety of different ones, from roasted garlic and herb to four-cheese, and even a lemon and sage. He's kneading at the multigrain dough now, making sure it's perfect before he greases the top and drapes a towel over it, leaving it to rise.

 

"They're for the restaurant," he says unnecessarily; of course they are. Even with Keith's metabolism and the amount he needs to eat, there's no way the two of them will ever be able to eat this much bread before it goes bad or they're sick of it.

 

"How long have you been _awake_?" Hunk asks, shaking his head and looking awed. "You've had to have been at this for hours to make so much, dude. It smells _awesome._ "

 

Keith shrugs uncomfortably. "Try it, just to make sure." The oven timer goes off and he takes the three loaves of pumpernickel out, plucking them from their pans and getting them onto more prepared cooling racks. With the dark, rough pads that cover his palms and fingers -- not unlike a wolf's padded paws -- he can transfer them a little easier. They're still _hot_ , but he isn't at risk of getting burned as quickly.

 

He hears a muffled moan behind him and hides his smile against his shoulder, making sure to school his expression before he turns to look at his human roommate.

 

"Acceptable?"

 

"Fuck you," Hunk mumbles through his mouthful, looking at Keith with stars in his eyes. He's got a chunk of the cheese bread cradled protectively against his chest, like he thinks someone is going to barge in and try to take it from him. "Dude, this is _phenomenal._ Why the hell haven't you done this before?" He crams another slice into his mouth and moans again. Keith ears press back, embarrassment making his cheeks prickle.

 

"Dunno," he mutters, yawning so wide his tongue curls and the overhead lights make his fangs shine. Exhaustion is a gritty texture behind his eyes, the skin around them tight, but the sugary scent of Hunk's happiness is more than worth his pitiful lack of sleep.

 

Hunk notices when he rubs at his eyes, and he seems to realizes just how tired Keith looks. "Have you slept at all, Keith?" he asks gently, setting the rest of his loaf down despite how much it looks like it pains him.

 

"No," Keith says through another yawn. "I tried," he admits, wiping a streak of flour off his forearm. "Just couldn't get there, not really, and I didn't wanna stare at the walls all night. So I figured I'd come out and be productive."

 

"Is it because of Allura and Shiro?" When Keith looks at him sharply, Hunk holds up his hands. "I know you aren't happy that they're going to be working at Heaven," he says. His guilt burns the back of Keith's throat. "Shiro especially."

 

"We need the help," Keith grunts, forcing himself to leave his rising dough alone. He starts washing the mixing bowl just to give himself something to do, thinking about what he can make while he waits for his next batch of bread to be ready. "I'll get over it."

 

"I said I'd never do anything that would cause trouble for you," Hunk argues, though he sounds miserable rather than heated. "After what you've been through… I know you aren't ready to talk about it, but I swore you'd be safe with us."

 

Keith sighs, letting his hands rest on the bowl in the water. "I know," he says, turning to look over his shoulder at the human watching him. Hunk is such a sensitive, gentle soul. His compassion is as overwhelming as it is touching most days, leaving Keith feeling perpetually caught between _this is what safety feels like_ and _nothing is ever this good._ "I know I'm… safe." That didn't sound convincing at all. "I know you don't want anyone to get hurt," he tries again. "Allura is… what she's doing… It's a great dream to have."

 

"You don't think it'll happen?"

 

"Hunk…" Keith runs a wet, soapy hand through his hair, slicking the unruly strands back out of his face. He really needs a haircut. "Hunk, some Anisapiens don't even know how to _talk_. Humans breed us like they would cats and dogs, and sell us the same way. I came from a breeding center, but I _know_ it's becoming common to find home-based breeders for domesticated species. I've seen the fliers. I've read the internet advertisements. People don't want a pet that can think for itself and talk back. They want something pretty that will do what they want without questioning _why_."

 

Hunk leans back against the counter and crosses his arms, looking thoughtful. "Can't talk, or never learned how to?"

 

"Can't," Keith says firmly. "If you gave a parrot the choice of freedom or her Owner, she'd pick her Owner every time. If a cat got loose, he'd cry until someone found him and took him back. Dogs are loyal to their Masters. I like what Allura wants to do, believe me, I _do._ But there are few Fighters out there like Shiro. I've _never_ met one like him before. Usually they have to be muzzled and chained, or kept caged, until their next fight. I've seen them tear apart Handlers and Anisapiens without care for distinction, because it's all they _know._ "

 

"Like a dog that's been beaten and trained a certain way," Hunk muses. Keith growls, his hackles bristling at the blatant offense, but the human waves his hands quickly. "No, no, hear me out, buddy. Okay?" Hunk waits for Keith to lean back, for his tail to relax and his ears to come forward, before he continues.

 

"Dog fighting is still a huge thing, and those dogs are trained a certain way. Most of them aren't naturally violent; it's a learned behavior. It's all training and conditioning to get them there. And I've heard _thousands_ of stories about dogs being rescued from fighting rings that were rehabilitated. They recovered, and lived _amazing,_ happy lives. Sure, some of them didn't bounce back as well as others, but they were still given a _chance._ And when they found their perfect home, they got all of the love they'd never gotten to have until then, you know?"

 

"You really think you can untrain a Fighter?" Keith asks, shaking his head. He understands where Hunk is coming from, but it's not the _same._ "You think you can teach a Helper to want to do anything besides what they were raised to do?"

 

"You're Miscellaneous," Hunk points out. "You fought, you didn't have a choice. Now you've just spent the night baking, like, the best bread I've _ever_ tasted. You got away from the shit you were forced into. Shiro isn't anything at all like what you say a Fighter is supposed to be. If the two if you can change that much, why can't others?"

 

"I don't know," Keith admits, drying his bowls and measuring cups. He digs out the rest of the ingredients he'll need for double chocolate chip cookies and doesn't flinch when Hunk comes to stand beside him. The man rests a hand on Keith's, stilling his twitching fingers, and he looks up to meet the human's gentle eyes.

 

"Give it a chance," he urges, squeezing Keith's hand. "You never know what could happen."

 

Keith presses his forehead against the man's shoulder, not missing his quiet, surprised gasp. He's never initiated contact like this before; he's always kept them as far away as he could stand, and they've never been anything but understanding about it.

 

"I'm so tired, Hunk," he mutters, and he knows that they _both_ know it isn't the kind of tired that sleep will cure. Keith has spent so long keeping himself on alert, waiting for the next attack, that he's forgotten what it's like to feel comfortable around someone else.

 

Truthfully, he's not sure he ever knew to begin with. If he has to think about it, he wonders of it would feel like this; resting against someone and knowing from the steady beat of their heart that they aren't going to attack. Smelling their unbridled happiness and feeling the restraint in their muscles because they're trying not to ask for something he's unwilling to give.

 

"You can," Keith says quietly, and Hunk's scent is as sweet as sugar cookies when the human hugs him. Keith doesn't hug back, but he doesn't pull away or tense up either. For once, he lets himself enjoy the comfort of closeness, his instincts rumbling _pack_ and chasing the shadows of his memories farther away.

 

 _Pack, huh,_ he muses to himself, tucking his nose against Hunk's collar and closing his eyes.

 

Maybe not just yet. Keith isn't ready for that kind of monumental shift. But... one day.

 

\---

 

They spend all of Sunday baking and trying out new recipes for the restaurant. At one point, Hunk begs Keith to lay down for even just an hour, so he curls up on the couch and lets the sound of the human humming to himself lull him into a doze.

 

He wakes up four hours later to a massive sandwich waiting for him on the coffee table. Hunk watches him eat, a gleam in his eye that Keith has come to know well.

 

"New special?" he asks between bites. It's really good, and he notes with a happy little shock that Hunk has used some of the bread he's made.

 

"New special," Hunk says proudly. "It works with all of them, even the cheese bread. I figure we can give them the option to choose one. You made so much bread, dude. I'm sure we'll have enough."

 

Keith licks his fingers clean and grins. "Yeah, well, we've heard that before," he teases. He's feeling light and playful, almost _mischievous._ It's such a foreign thing for him, but he's loathe to lose it.

 

"That was _one time,_ " Hunk protests. "And you weren't even with us yet! That was, like, a week after the place opened!"

 

"But you learned your lesson, didn't you?" Keith's tail wags, and when Hunk sees it, he beams so wide that Keith is worried he's going to pull a muscle.

 

"True," the human admits, accepting defeat gracefully. "In that case, we'd better get baking. We've got a lot of bread to make before tomorrow."

 

It's… fun. Keith doesn't often cook at the apartment. Hunk likes to make the meals they eat, and it's not uncommon for him to think up new things and have Keith try them, or reinvent one of the dishes he already serves at his restaurant to try and make it better. To be working side by side with the man, the two of them moving around each other like they've been cooking together for years, is a whole new experience. He loses track of time, just basking in the relaxation; he's loathe to let it go, but he knows he's going to have to.

 

They finally call it quits well after midnight, wrapping the breads to keep them fresh before heading to their separate rooms. Hunk looks like he wants to ask for another hug, but in the end he just smiles and waves.

 

"Sleep well, Keith."

 

"You too." The words feel clunky and unfamiliar in his mouth, but Hunk looks like Keith has just given him the greatest gift ever. He shies away from it, embarrassed and uncomfortable at being the focus of that kind of expression. Hunk doesn't try to stop him, so Keith shuts his door and buries himself in his nest of blankets, letting his own scent calm him.

 

The only problem is that now he remembers why he spent the night before and most of the day baking instead of trying to sleep. When he closes his eyes, all he can see is Shiro smiling at him; following him like he's content to go wherever Keith wants to. Smelling like the earth and musk and ozone; watching Keith with those dark gray eyes that sear through his defenses like no one else ever has.

 

Growling, he punches his pillows and refuses to let himself think about the Alpha Fighter, shutting his eyes and focusing on cooking with Hunk instead; the scent of the breads, and meat. The freshness of the avocados and the tang of mayonnaise on his tongue.

 

It works well enough, but Keith still feels tense when his alarm goes off a few hours later. He growls and climbs out of bed, waiting for the familiar knock while he's getting ready. When it comes, he joins Hunk without a word and sees the happiness radiating from the human dim at his quiet, withdrawn greeting. Guilt is a painful, unfamiliar lurch in his stomach, but Keith is tired and annoyed at himself; any apology he tried to make right now would be flat and a lie.

 

They're quiet on the way to the restaurant, though he can tell that Hunk is itching to reach out and soothe his irritation. Keith almost wants him to, but the rest of him is in no mood to be touched or coddled, and he thinks the human can sense that.

 

Hunk's Heaven is within walking distance of the apartment, so they carry the bread with them, the last of the loaves cooled enough to be wrapped in wax paper like the rest. Despite all of the different scents fighting against each other in his nose, they still smell really good. Knowing that he's contributed thaws Keith enough that he gives Hunk a tiny twitch of a smile when the man looks at him.

 

The smile he gets in return is almost blinding.

 

As soon as they're inside, Keith gets his apron on washes his hands; grabbing a bread knife and starting to cut the loaves into thick slices for the club sandwiches. He cuts one of each kind to start with, layering them on plates and wrapping them to keep the bread fresh.

 

"Toasted an option?" he asks quietly. Hunk hums thoughtfully.

 

"I think it'd be good. Wanna change the board?"

 

Keith says, "Sure," and goes to write out the sandwich ingredients, his ears flattening when he hears the side door open a few minutes later. He smells Allura and Shiro before he sees them; chooses to ignore their presence until a shadow falls over him and he knows that the lion is waiting patiently to be noticed.

 

When he's done, he frowns and looks up at the Anisapien, trying not to broadcast hostility. "Yeah?"

 

Shiro smiles at him. "Good morning, Keith. Did you sleep well?"

 

 _No, and it's your fault,_ he thinks sourly. He doesn't say that though, because he's actually trying not to be an asshole. "Not really," he says instead, shrugging like it's not a problem. "Not really a new thing, though. Did, uh-" Why is this so hard? "Did you sleep well?" he manages to force out. Shiro tilts his head, looking at him with worried eyes.

 

"Not really," he echoes. He shrugs gracefully. Who the hell even does that? "I get a lot of nightmares," the Fighter explains quietly. "It's… difficult, sometimes, to get proper rest when you're constantly fighting your own mind."

 

"Ah, yeah. I can understand that." Unfortunately, Keith is all too familiar with the horrors a tortured mind can come up with. If anyone could understand, it would be the Anisapien watching him with an intensity that still makes Keith's skin prickle and twitch. He swallows, ignoring the way Shiro's eyes drop to follow the bob of his adam's apple. "I'm sorry."

 

The lion blinks, looking confused for a moment before the expression melts into something softer. "It's not your fault," he murmurs, a noise not unlike a purr rumbling in his throat. "But, thank you, Keith. I appreciate it."

 

There's still over a foot of space between them, but everything feels too personal. Too intimate. He can feel Allura and Hunk watching them, a physical weight between his shoulder blades. Even if he didn't _know,_ the kitchen smells like cookies and buttercups, and the humans aren't talking about anything that could make them smell like that.

 

Well, maybe Hunk is. His passion for food is unparalleled. But Keith highly doubts Allura loves ceasar dressing as much as her friend does.

 

"Yeah," he mutters, ducking away to go start the prep work for the oncoming day. He's hoping that's the last of it, but Shiro doesn't seem to agree. He follows Keith to his work station, and then to the fridge, watching him pull out a tub of vegetables like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.

 

"Do you need help?" the Fighter asks before Keith can snarl and snap at him. He sounds so _genuine_ , so earnest, that it punches the agitation from his chest in a rough exhale.

 

"You can start the prep for the salads?" Keith makes it sound more like a question than a requirement, but Shiro's rounded ears perk, his eyes lighting up.

 

"Of course. Will you show me how?"

 

It's on the tip of Keith's tongue to snap that he's a big boy, and he can figure it out himself, but then he makes the mistake of looking at Hunk. The human stares back at him, openly pleading like _Shiro_ can't smell exactly what they're doing, and Keith clenches his teeth until his jaw aches.

 

Shiro sighs. "Keith," he says quietly, rubbing the back of his head. His ears droop. "You don't have to. I know you don't want to, and I'm not angry. I'm not expecting you to trust me, and I'm not asking you to."

 

Growling, Keith sets his tub down a little harder than he means to, flinching back from the sound while Shiro hisses and does the same. They both freeze, tension crackling in the silence for several heartbeats. Keith's hackles are up, his tail raised and bristling. Shiro's tail lashes behind him, his hands curling and uncurling. Hunk and Allura are watching, neither one of them breathing, and Keith knows they're anticipating a fight.

 

Taking a slow, shaky breath, he forces himself to relax his tense muscles. "Sorry," he croaks at Shiro, knowing that his pupils are still dilated. For a second, he swears he sees a flash of gold swirl through the lion's eyes, but then Shiro blinks and they're gray again.

 

"It's alright," he gasps, his fingers twitching. "You didn't mean to."

 

"Yeah." Keith sighs, rubbing his face and growling in frustration when he realizes that he has to wash his hands again. "Just… wash up, get gloves on, and find a knife like mine. I'll show you how we cut the shit up, and then you can go bother Hunk. Okay?"

 

Shiro nods, offering him a small, strained smile. "Alright. Thank you, Keith."

 

It takes a while for them to find something that's not quite comfortable, but definitely isn't as tense. Shiro washes his hands without taking his dark gloves off while Keith watches, but doesn't comment. The lion pulls the vinyl gloves on over his own, offering no explanation because he knows that Keith won't ask.

 

"Over there," he grunts, gesturing toward the opposite side of the prep table. They're not small by any means, but he's more comfortable keeping distance between them. Shiro doesn't question it, just moves his tubs to his side and waits, watching Keith with a different kind of intensity; one that doesn't make him feel like there's going to be claws in his throat or teeth at his nape if he shows weakness.

 

"Do you ever do anything by halves?" he asks rhetorically, and Shiro's honest confusion makes him snort and shake his head. "Don't worry about it. Just, cut the lettuce like this, okay?"

 

On the bright side, Shiro is a quick learner. It doesn't take him long to get the hang of slicing the vegetables, though Keith can tell that he's keeping himself firmly in check. A Fighter his size can rip someone open with minimal effort; if he's not careful, he'll crush the -- much more delicate -- vegetables being dwarfed by his broad hands. There's a furrow between his brows, his lower lip caught by a thick fang as he concentrates.

 

They lose a tomato despite his care, and his devastation is honestly a little funny. Keith doesn't laugh at him, he's not _that_ heartless, but he's having trouble keeping the amusement out of his voice while they look at the pulverized mush.

 

"Honestly, it's not a huge deal. Hunk makes his own salsa for the quesadillas. We'll just add it to the next batch. We were getting low anyway."

 

"I'm so sorry," Shiro says miserably, scraping the mess toward the end of the table like they'll forget about it if it's not in their direct line of sight.

 

"It's fine." Keith waves his hand dismissively. "I wrecked way more shit when I first showed up. I'm the reason we have chunky tomato soup on the menu."

 

"And avocado mayonnaise," Lance calls. Keith hadn't even realized he and Pidge had arrived. He's been so focused on helping Shiro be less of a disaster.

 

"Shut up, pork paste," he snaps, but there's no heat in his voice. Lance looks offended, opening his mouth to fire back with something else, but Pidge slaps a hand over his mouth and drags him away before he can speak.

 

"Come on, Lance, you said you'd show me how to pipe the perfect lady fingers today, _remember?_ "

 

"What? No I didn- Ow! Pidge, what the hell!"

 

"They're not very subtle, are they?" Shiro sounds amused, and fond. His expression is soft when Keith looks at him; he's watching Lance and Pidge have a quiet, furious discussion on the other side of the kitchen. Pidge gestures at them, and Lance's understanding "Oh!" is far from quiet.

 

"I'm sure they mean well," Keith sighs. Shiro looks at him, and his expression doesn't change. It makes the wolf pin his ears back, feeling defensive and off-balance. "What?"

 

"You're good at this." Shiro gestures between them. Keith is halfway through his fourth prep bin, while Shiro is still finishing his first. "Is it because you're a Miscellaneous? Or is it because you had such a good teacher?"

 

Keith shrugs, feeling his cheeks warm. Why is Shiro so goddamn _nice?_ At least some of it has to be an act. No Fighter -- especially not an Alpha Fighter -- has ever been this docile; not one that survived past their first few fights, at least. The rings and pits were far too savage to let a weakness fester for long. You either killed it in yourself _quick_ , or you got killed by someone else because you didn't have the stomach for that particulsr breed of violence.

 

"I don't know," he mutters, realizing he's let the silence drag on for long enough that Shiro looks worried. "Both? I pick things up pretty easily. But I still screwed up a lot at first. Hunk should have fired me, but he just wouldn't give up. He's fucking stubborn when he wants to be."

 

"It's an admirable trait." Shiro says it like it's a fact, simple and easy. Keith stares at him, trying to figure out what the fuck is up with the lion Anisapien. He feels like he's suffering from a perpetual case of whiplash; what he sees does not match up with what he hears. The constant contradictions are dizzying.

 

"How are you even _real_?" he growls. Rather than looking offended or angry, Shiro just looks amused.

 

"I could ask you the same thing, but I doubt you'd give me a straight answer. So, how do you cut the cucumbers for the spring salad?"

 

Shaking his head, Keith chuffs, but he grabs a cucumber anyway. Shiro copies him, his knife poised to cut, and watches him with eyes that burn.

 

Whether it's curiosity or interest -- and in _what_ \-- Keith doesn't know. He tries not to think about it, focusing on showing the lion how to slice the cucumbers while four pairs of eyes burn holes into his back.

 

None of them would know _subtlety_ if it punched them in the jaw, but Keith kind of wants to anyway. Just to see if it would work.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith has a run-in with some Garrison punks. It doesn't go the way he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for assault/blood. Keith gets beaten up by some jerks.
> 
> Also, there's a type of panic attack when Keith wakes up -- it's more of a violent rage reaction than pure fear. So, tread carefully.
> 
> Enjoy, lovelies~

"Damn, you've got a mouth on you, huh?"

 

Keith bares his teeth, growling from deep in his chest. It's a brutal, savage sound, but it doesn't do a damn thing to deter the group of cadets that have him pinned in the back of the alley, all five of them standing in a tight semi-circle to keep him where he is. Just past them, he knows two Anisapien wolves are lounging at the mouth of the alley, keeping watch and doing nothing to stop what's happening.

 

"Get the fuck out of my way," Keith growls, glaring at each of them in turn. Even the youngest one is taller and broader than him, his arms crossed over his chest and his smile cocky.

 

"Aw, don't be like that, puppy," he coos. "We just wanted to say hi. We've seen you at that corner place. Heaven-somethin', right? What's a big, scary mutt like you doin' in a little place like that, huh?"

 

Keith growls, seeing the red starting to creep in at the corners of his vision. "My Owner is expecting me. Get the fuck out of my way."

 

The boy at the center of the semi-circle swaggers closer; he's clearly the leader of this little ragtag group of bullies. He's scowling down at Keith, who snaps his teeth in warning. "You speak to your Owner like that, puppy?" he sneers. "Or is he just too soft to _discipline_ you the way you need?"

 

"I'm tellin' you, man," another cadet pipes up. "These people who think it's cool to own an exotic, but they ain't got the first clue on how to deal with 'em. Bunch of dumbasses."

 

Blood drips from Keith's knuckles; he's digging his claws into his palms so hard that he's broken the thick skin.

 

"I need to get back to my Owner," he spits, the words like ash on his tongue. He's wearing his collar, at least, so they can't automatically declare that he's run away. "He's expecting me."

 

"Yeah?" one of them jeers. "Been waitin' for his little cock warmer to come back home?"

 

They all laugh, too loud and too close. At least three of them reek of alcohol, so Keith doesn't know if their forwardness and aggression is the result of them being drunk, or if the alcohol just exacerbates the cruel tendencies they already have.

 

It's his own fault for ending up in this mess, and he knows it. He'd been so distracted by his desire to _get away_ that he hadn't been paying attention to the group of Garrison cadets that had been loitering by the alley. Keith doubts that they were waiting for him specifically, but once they caught sight of him loping down the sidewalk, they were quick to react.

 

His cheek stings from scraping the brick wall they'd shoved him against before Keith wrestled free. They're bigger than him, sure, but he's got the advantage in strength. Seven against one is still shitty odds, and when their Anisapiens helped to pin him back in his corner, the betrayal and rage had left him shaking.

 

Let them think it's fear. They have no idea what they're dealing with. They clearly think he's some soft, domesticated pet despite his mouth. His reactions can be passed off as fear-based; their alcohol-inhibited brains won't know the difference.

 

"What are your stats, puppy?" the leader asks, a wobbly attempt at a command. The fact that they can stand is impressive, but their flushed faces and dilated eyes prove that they're leaning far more toward drunk than sober.

 

"Miscellaneous," Keith snaps. "Please move. I need to leave. My Owner will be worried if I'm not back soon."

 

"Hah!" A redhead with a mean smirk leers at him, swaying closer until Keith snarls. "A Misc, huh? Means you gotta be really good at a _lot_ of things, huh?"

 

"You good at gettin' fucked by your Owner, puppy?" another calls, loud and abrasive while his friends hoot and cackle. "Or does he like it when you bend him over and give him that kn-"

 

His tenuous thread of control snaps. There may be seven of them, but these five are _human_ , and neither of their wolf pets is a Fighter. Keith lunges for the closest, rage burning beneath his skin as the red finally overtakes his vision. He gets the redhead under the jaw, claws tearing fragile skin as he lashes out. It's not enough to cause permanent damage, and the punch he follows up with snaps the cadet's head back with a satisfying crack.

 

In the rings, there was no fair fighting. It was all teeth and claws, cunning and brute strength. You were either fast, or you were a tank -- whatever you had to be to stay alive. Keith has fought in rings the size of his room at Hunk's apartment, and arenas bigger than the restaurant. He's used everything at his fingertips to drag down beasts bigger than these boys, and they were a hell of a lot more clear-headed.

 

He only fought them one-on-one, though, and he wasn't already cornered when the fight started. He follows the redhead down, going for the jugular, but too many hands drag him away. Keith twists and turns, lashing out and biting at whatever he can reach; howling and snarling until a punch snaps his head to the side. He bites his tongue, blood pooling his mouth; he spits it into the eyes of the closest cadet, kicking another one away with bare feet, his claws ripping the boy's uniform shirt and scratching his vulnerable stomach.

 

"Z2, U6, help hold him down!"

 

More hands get added, these ones digging claws into his wrists and ankles. Keith glares up at the wolves pinning him impassively, doing as they've been ordered with no regard to their kin-species. They're blank slates, watching without remorse, and any insults Keith could scream at them get driven from his lungs by a harsh kick at his ribs.

 

He coughs, splattering droplets of blood across the first wolf's face. He's an odd looking Anisapien, with a blunt muzzle and short gray fur. His golden eyes burn into Keith, offering him nothing.

 

"You're gonna pay for that, you little bitch," redhead hisses, pressing a hand against his throat to stop the blood leaking from the claw marks there. He's got blood on his lips too -- either Keith knocked out some teeth, or the little shit bit his tongue too when he got uppercut.

 

"Yeah?" Keith bares his fangs, knowing how feral he looks as he thrashes and strains to get leverage. If he can just get the wolves to loosen up a _little_ , he'll fucking kill them all, consequences be damned. "You think you got what it takes to make _me_ regret that, you piece of shit? You talk a big game, but not a damn one of you has the balls to face me fairly. You all hide behind each other and your whipped bitch _pets-_ "

 

A foot comes down on his abdomen. Keith yowls, gagging on pain and bile. Garrison boots are no fucking joke, heavy and made for traction on all surfaces. It's far from the worst injury Keith has ever gotten, but it's no fucking picnic either. He spits out another mouthful of blood and sour saliva, panting and glaring up at all of them.

 

"Time for some discipline, boys," their leader says, darkly eager. He crouches to grab Keith's jaw, squeezing until he knows there will be bruises and glaring down at the defiant wolf. "Bet your Owner will thank us when we curb your bitchy attitude." He sneers, spitting on Keith's face. "This is exactly why civilians shouldn't have exotics, boys," the cadet continues, raising his voice to rile them up. His eyes never leave Keith's. "They're too wild. Give them an inch, and they start acting like they're _free._ "

 

"Go fuck yourself," Keith snarls, baring his teeth.

 

He really, really fucking hates Saturdays.

 

The blows come from all sides, and with the Garrison Anisapiens keeping him pinned, Keith has no hope of fighting back. He still tries, thrashing and snapping at the wolf pinning his wrists -- forcing him to pin Keith harder, until his bones grind together and it's just one more point of agony to bleed into the rest. It just makes him more feral, his ears flat against his skull and his feet kicking. Pain and rage lend him strength, and he finally gets a foot free; he immediately kicks the Anisapien in the face, feeling the delicate give of an eye and grinning savagely at the resulting howl of agony.

 

"Mike, get his fucking leg down!"

 

Keith kicks out again, writhing and twisting like some possessed creature. They might just beat him to death -- and they'll get away with it if they say Keith went feral and attacked first -- but damn if he's not going to make sure they fucking _remember_ him for the rest of their lives.

 

Someone roars, and Keith is so driven by the need to _fight_ and _get away_ that it takes him a second to realize that no human could make that sound. He sees a flash of something, but he's too pinned down to figure out what it is -- until a black hand with vicious claws hooks around the throat of the cadet leaning over him and throws the boy like he weighs nothing.

 

In seconds, all of the cadets have been tossed like ragdolls, each of them crying out in pain before Keith hears an impact, and then nothing. The Anisapien holding his wrists lets go, growling at Keith's savior, and that same black hand slams against the wolf's throat, the momentum behind the strike carrying him until they hit the back wall. The wolf yelps, gags, and Keith pushes himself up despite his body screaming at him to stay down so he can see who the fuck incapacitated seven bodies in less than thirty seconds.

 

Shiro still has the other Anisapien pinned by his throat, the wolf's feet dangling nearly a foot off the ground. The lion is wearing a tank top and shorts, as if he'd been sleeping until the sound of the fight dragged him out of bed.

 

Keith chokes on a bloody, ragged breath when he sees the Alpha Fighter's arm. Scarred, tanned skin blends into short black fur just below his bicep, carrying all the way down to his fingertips. His claws are thick and black, wickedly curved, and currently digging into the gray fur of the wolf Anisapien's throat, blood dripping from five distinct wounds.

 

"Keith," Shiro says, his voice destroyed by the growls he's not even trying to contain. "Are you alright?"

 

"Yeah," he croaks, forcing himself to stand and leaning against the wall when his knees threaten to give out. Shiro's ears are pinned back, his tail lashing. Keith can't see his face, but something in him says that he really, really doesn't want to right now.

 

"Good," the lion hisses. His grip tightens until the Anisapien wheezes. "When your Handler regains consciousness," he growls, making sure the wolf's eyes are on him, "you will escort him and his _friends_ back to the Garrison. You will tell their commanding officers that they started this fight with an unaccompanied Anisapien male who was simply trying to run an errand for his Owner. You will _tell them_ that he asked repeatedly to be let go, and that these cadets -- who are clearly drunk and underage, which is still prohibited, if I'm not mistaken -- refused his request. They assaulted him, and when he tried to defend himself, they brutally attacked. _You-_ " Shiro is snarling now, and Keith isn't sure the wolf is going to live to relay the messages if the Fighter doesn't let him breathe soon "-will tell them of your own involvement in pinning the Anisapien down. You will tell them how you and your pack brother helped restrain him rather than convincing the cadets to stand down, _as you should have._ Do I make myself clear?"

 

He's roaring by the end of his speech, the acrid stench of urine from the Garrison wolf proving that his threat tactics have hit home exactly as they were meant to. Keith curls his lip, trying to block it from his nose.

 

"Yes, sir," the Anisapien wheezes faintly.

 

Shiro drops him, glaring down at the creature crumpled at his feet. Keith watches him slip a bare foot beneath the wolf's muzzle to force his head up.

 

"If the commanding officers wish to investigate further, you will tell them General Alfor Tean's daughter is in Clay Canyon on business. She will be made aware of what has occurred, and she and her people will be available for questions at _their_ leisure. _Is that understood?"_

 

"Y-yes, sir."

 

Shiro lets the wolf's head drop, snarling at him one more time. The Anisapien flinches, whining submissively and offering his bloody throat. That seems to satisfy something in Shiro; his snarl softens to a rumble.

 

"I expected better from wolves of the Garrison. I expected better from _all_ of you. Whether you are meant to serve or not is not the question here. How you let them command you reflects as much on the Handlers as it does on you. We already struggle enough with how the humans view us as lesser. Obeying orders like this only make that stigma worse. Holding down a member of your own species who has done _nothing_ wrong makes you just as bad as them. If not worse."

 

Clearly finished, Shiro turns and leaves the Anisapien trembling on the ground. His eyes fixate on Keith like they're both magnets pulled toward one another, and Keith nearly swallows his tongue when he sees that Shiro's eyes are a feral, burnished gold. The lion prowls closer, each movement liquid and graceful; he's making soothing chirping sounds, clearly trying to soothe Keith's mounting distress.

 

"Don't touch me," he spits, stumbling back and almost tripping over an unconscious cadet. Shiro freezes, his hands lifted in a show of peace -- one broad, scarred, human; the other black, furred, _violent_. It's no wonder he wears gloves. His preference for staying as clothed as possible despite the summer heat makes so much sense now. There's a strip of fur across his chest; another patch down his human arm from bicep to forearm. And where there isn't fur, there's _scars._ So many marks of violence that Keith's pale in comparison. The jagged scars through his fur have made it grow back white in those places; he wonders if that's why Shiro's bangs are white too.

 

"Keith, Shiro croons, "I'm not going to hurt you. I will _never_ hurt you. Please, you don't have to trust me. Just let me help. Please, Keith."

 

Keith's growl is weak. His vision is starting to waver. Every time he breathes, no matter how shallow it is, his ribs down the right side light up like fireworks of pain.

 

"Don't… Don't fucking… touch..."

 

Shiro calls his name, but darkness overtakes him before Keith can respond, dragging him down into painless nothingness.

 

\---

 

_"This one has quite a bit of spirit to him, Sir."_

 

_"I can see that. How delightful. Not many Miscellaneous have such spark in them."_

 

_Cold hands touch his face, clinical and assessing. Long fingers pull his lips back to show his teeth, checking their sharpness and strength. He wants so badly to bite, but he's got so much sedative in him that he can't even tell if he's standing or laying down. Everything is blurry._

 

_"Put him on the card against another newcomer. I want to know if he has what it takes. And, Thace?"_

 

_"Yes, Sir?"_

 

_"Do take care with how much you drug the merchandise. Our audience pays good money for the fights we give them."_

 

_"Yes, Sir. My apologies. We couldn't handle him any other way."_

 

_"Really? How fascinating. I hope he has that much life in the ring. It will make for such an interesting match."_

 

_There are hands on his face. He feels tightness around his ribs. Something cool smears across his cheek, fingers coming so close to his mouth. He growls weakly; a flurry of voices respond. He's angry. He's angry and humiliated, as weak as a newborn cub. Weakness means death, and he's not ready to die. He refuses to die a slave._

 

_The fingers stroke his cheek, deceptively gentle. Rage burns away some of the drugs clouding him._

 

_He turns his head and-_

 

-bites, snarling and thrashing to get away but too stubborn to let go of his prize. Someone cries out in pain and he finally lets go, tasting layers of blood in his mouth. He scrambles to try and get off the table he's been laid out on, his body aching sharply in protest. Pain makes him clumsy, but he pushes through it. He's had worse, he's had so much worse, even though he feels like his ribs are being crushed and he can't breathe right. Voices are calling out to him, loud and jarring in his sensitive ears. His hackles bristle; he's off the table and in a corner, protecting his back and snarling as savagely as he can manage.

 

_I'll fucking kill you if you touch me-_

 

"-ith! Keith, it's okay! It's okay, I'm sorry, I should have warned you-"

 

Keith? He hunkers down, claws ready and teeth bared. They aren't coming closer, they're staying on the other side of the table. He smells blood and pain and fear -- and guilt?

 

No one in the pits was ever guilty. No one cared what they had to do, as long as they got to keep breathing.

 

"Keith?"

 

This voice is softer, feminine. He hesitates, cocking his head and growling in warning. He still can't get his eyes to focus and he paws at one, whining when his claws scrape against a cut.

 

"Keith, it's alright," she says, her voice so gentle compared to what he's used to. He sniffs the air, trying to pick out the different scents hidden beneath the blood.

 

He smells lilac, something soothing and sweet; sugar, motor oil, artificial flowers.

 

An Alpha Fighter.

 

_Shiro._

 

Keith smacks his head against the wall, whining in pain. He sees Allura kneeling closer than the others, though it looks like Pidge is the only thing keeping Hunk back.

 

"Your dream is a fucking waste," he groans, rubbing roughly at his eyes; shaking his head like that will clear away the murky fog clinging to the edges of his consciousness.

 

Allura watches him, guilt shading the calmness in her clear blue eyes. "I understand why you feel that way," she says, and she sounds so sympathetic that Keith wants to throw something at her. He doesn't want her _pity._ He doesn't want _any_ pity. He's not some broken creature they need to handle like fragile glass. He's not going to shatter if someone touches him too hard.

 

Keith knows he would be panicking if he weren't so angry. His breathing is too harsh, too sharp and shallow. He's digging gouges into the floor, keeping himself cornered so no one can sneak up and lunge at him from behind. He's shaking, exhaustion and pain blending with feral rage into a cocktail that makes his skin too tight.

 

"No," he snarls, "you don't. You think because you've _seen_ that you have any fucking clue?" Keith looks from her to Shiro. The lion is watching him with unreadable gray eyes, leaning against the wall by the door to give Keith plenty of space. He's wearing a hoodie and his gloves, and sweatpants; hiding again like it'll make any difference.

 

"You think because he was so easy that they're all gonna be that way?" He sneers at Allura, smelling the sharp bruise-scent of her hurt, but Keith can't bring himself to care. "Two of them were wolves," Keith growls, looking away so he doesn't have to see the resignation on their faces; Shiro probably already told them. "They were like _me_ , and they held me down so their human _Masters_ could beat the shit out of me, like well-trained dogs. You think they want to be _saved?_ They didn't give a shit what I was. They just followed orders, like they were _bred_ to do."

 

"I didn't tell Shiro to help you," Allura says quietly, after Keith has clenched his teeth to shut himself up. He's breathing too hard, his ribs aching so sharply that his eyes are wet. "I didn't," she goes on when he shows no sign of stopping her. "He didn't even wait for me to put his collar on. Keith, I didn't wake up until he brought you inside; we're three blocks away from that alley. He did that on his _own._ I'm not trying to say that everyone will magically accept freedom the second it is handed to them. Shiro has been with me for a long time, and he is _still_ learning."

 

"Things don't change overnight, Keith." Shiro's voice is low, and tired. His head is bowed, his shoulders curling, like the weight of the world is pushing down on him and he's struggling to carry it. He's still looking at Keith through the wild mess of his bangs, his eyes calm and offering compassion. "Healing is a process. We all go through it at our own pace. What those cadets and their Anisapiens did tonight was unacceptable."

 

"And believe me, action _will_ be taken," Allura cuts in fiercely. Shiro waits patiently, but she doesn't say anything else, so the lion nods and continues.

 

"When you first left the ring, did you attack anyone that came close, no matter who it was?"

 

Keith doesn't look at them, but he doesn't have to. They can see the truth easily enough. Hunk, Pidge, and Lance all know it.

 

"It took time to learn who you could trust, didn't it?" Shiro coaxes. "You still struggle with it, and no one blames you. Everyone heals _differently_." He puts so much force into those three words, so much _belief,_ that Keith looks at him silently. Sizes him up like a feral, half-rabid beast, his lips twitching and his claws digging deeper furrows into the kitchen floor. This isn't Hunk's apartment, this isn't _safety,_ and it's making him feel more raw and defensive. Aside from the humans fretting over him on the other side of the table, nothing smells familiar.

 

He looks at Shiro. "I told you not to touch me."

 

Shiro nods, his guilty hot and ashy. "I know, and I'm sorry. I didn't want to leave you there while I went to get help. I didn't know if the wolf would honor his words. It wasn't a risk I was willing to take."

 

Keith nods tightly, accepting Shiro's truth even if he doesn't like it. He slumps back against his corner, feeling weakness and exhaustion weigh him down. Now that his adrenaline is leaving him, his pain is so much sharper. He whines quietly, keeping his tail pressed tightly against his leg.

 

"I still think this is useless," he tells Allura tiredly. She nods, letting him have his opinion.

 

"I hope you're wrong," she says, folding her hands on her lap.

 

"Yeah," Keith grunts. He rolls his head to look at Hunk, seeing the shine of tears on the man's face. "What the hell are you crying for? I'm not dead."

 

"I thought you were," Hunk blubbers. "When Allura called, I thought, like, Shiro had found your _body_ or something. You are never allowed to scare me like that again, you hear me?"

 

Chuffing, Keith closes his eyes. "I'll get right on that."

 

"Good," Hunk huffs. Then, tentatively, "Are you gonna try and maim me if I sit over there? I won't touch you, I swear. I just. You weren't moving, and there was so much _blood_ , holy jeez-"

 

"Hunk," Pidge cuts him off sharply. Keith doesn't see the look on their faces -- his eyes are shut while he focuses on breathing. He imagines that's why Pidge stopped Hunk; the memories battering at the backs of his eyelids are making him twitch.

 

"Sorry," the man whispers, sounding miserable and filling the kitchen with the scent of cardamom.

 

"Fuck, just- c'mere," Keith grunts, flinching away from the sudden sound of someone the size of Hunk scrambling to be close to him. He knows better than to come too close, which Keith appreciates. When he cracks open an eye, the human is kneeling beside Allura, twisting and wrinkling his shirt with fretful hands.

 

"I'm not, like, gonna tell you that you aren't allowed to go out alone anymore," he starts, and a tension in Keith's chest he hasn't known was there uncoils; he breathes a little easier. Theoretically, if Hunk tried, he could ignore him; the human isn't actually his Owner. But if he goes out without that damn collar, it's going to cause a lot more problems if he gets caught.

 

Keith arches an eyebrow tiredly. "But?" he prompts. Hunk winces.

 

"But, uh, maybe you should wait a bit. Just until you're healed!" he adds quickly, when he sees how Keith's face darkens. "They cracked some _ribs,_  dude," the human stresses, almost whining. "They could have _killed_ you."

 

"I've had worse." The thing of it is, Keith isn't even lying. Aside from the cracked ribs, he came away with a lot of bruises and a few scrapes, but nothing serious. Nothing fatal. "I want to go back to the apartment now," he says stiffly, before anyone can say anything else or try to coddle him.

 

Shiro bites his lip, his ears drooping back. "Keith, you should-"

 

Keith snarls. "No!" They all stare at him, shocked, but he's had _enough._ "I'm going home, damn it. I'm not a fucking _whelp._ I can take a few hits; I've taken a lot worse. Just leave me alone." He pushes himself up, distancing himself from the pain in a way he hasn't had to for months, but hasn't forgotten. Steadying his breathing, he puts one foot in front of the other until he's by the door, looking over his shoulder at them. They all share varying degrees of concern and guilt, thickening the air until it gets caught in Keith's throat.

 

"I know you care," he says, feeling overwhelmingly tired and determined not to let it show. He's shown them enough weakness tonight. "I just… I need to go."

 

Allura sighs, rubbing her face. "It _is_ late," she agrees. "We'll all feel better after a good night's sleep. I'll make some phone calls tomorrow; I'm sure those cadets will have spun their tale by then. The sooner we can get the upper hand in this, the better for us."

 

"Keep us updated?" Hunk asks hopefully. He and Allura share a smile, gripping forearms before he pulls her into a hug. Keith watches, aware of Shiro's eyes on him; he refuses to look over. As soon as Hunk is close enough, he pulls the door open and leaves, putting one foot in front of the other and focusing inward the entire way back to the apartment.

 

Tomorrow is going to fucking suck, but he'll deal with that when it comes. For now, all Keith cares about is the safety and comfort of his bed, even if his dreams are going to be far from pleasant.

 

That, at least, is something he's used to.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith gets a visitor; he and Shiro hash out a few things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeyyyy. I gotta get up for work in three hours but I couldn't help myself. Have more insanity and Keith being a Mess.
> 
> Will he ever not be, though? Honestly?
> 
> No beta; all mistakes are mine. Hopefully I caught most of them, but don't be afraid to give a holler. Sometimes my phone does weird things to text.

_I have definitely been spending way too much time with Hunk._

 

Keith crosses his arms, looking at the four different flavors of cake currently cooling on racks across the kitchen. He wants to scowl, but for the first time in days, he feels too content to stew in his thoughts. Baking is far more relaxing than he initially gave it credit for. He loses himself in the rhythm of ingredients and mixing; the scent of what he's created filling the kitchen.

 

He takes a moment to check the buttercream icing base in the mixer, eyeing it critically before raising the speed a notch. The other two icings are already finished and chilling in the fridge -- a vanilla almond icing, and a cream cheese based honey icing that is already his favorite. It's not as sweet as the other one, though he's curious to see how the buttercream will turn out. He's never heard of a flour-based icing before.

 

Feeling slightly obsessive, he checks the mixer again, his ears perking excitedly when he deems it to be ready. Keith adds the vanilla, backing down the speed while he adds the powdered sugar to keep it from flying everywhere and making a mess.

 

He learned his lesson with the vanilla almond icing.

 

Tasting it, he finds it sweeter than he prefers, but creamy. The others will no-doubt love it; Hunk, especially, seems beyond thrilled whenever Keith bakes anything. He hasn't made much aside from breads, but today he didn't have the patience for that kind of waiting.

 

It's been three days since he's been allowed to work. Three days of pacing and winding himself tighter and tighter; unable to go anywhere because Hunk takes the collar with him, so Keith can't just _leave._ He could, but if anyone catches him without it, he'll be in more trouble than he already is. There hasn't been anything from the Garrison as of yet, but Allura has been spending every free minute she has on the phone, according to Hunk. Everyone is tense, and they all swear up and down that it's not his fault.

 

Keith is going to maul the next person who says that to him. He genuinely hopes it's Shiro. The lion has been making his agitation so much _worse_ with the way his eyes constantly track Keith whenever they're near each other. It's like the Fighter is fixated on him, and fuck if Keith can figure out why. Shiro's scent doesn't give him any clues, and he hates _guessing._

 

Scraping the icing into a different bowl and wrapping it, Keith sticks it in Hunk's ridiculously spacious fridge with the others to let it set until he's ready for it. He washes the mixing bowl quickly, eyeing the ingredients he'll need for the fudge icing he's planning on making next, and then the recipe he's already got waiting on Hunk's laptop.

 

Someone knocks on the door, which _never_ happens. The only people who visit Hunk are his friends, and they follow the man's open-door policy. At least they announce themselves now; Keith had nearly gutted Lance the first time they ever met, which had done him no favors in terms of the boisterous human trusting him. Pidge hadn't fared much better, but Keith is used to them coming in randomly now, or trailing in after Hunk. They just know to call out as soon as they show up.

 

Reaching for the closest knife, Keith prowls silently toward the door, his ears forward and his nostrils flaring when he breathes in. He doesn't recognize the muted scent just outside the door, or the cadence of the heartbeat. All he knows is they're human, male, older, and -- _Garrison._

 

Baring his teeth, he cracks open the door enough to glare at the man standing on the welcome mat. He's tall and thin, with unusual triangular tattoos curling underneath his eyes. His red hair is slicked back aside from a few unruly bangs, his lavender eyes staring forward at a fixed point.

 

"Good afternoon," he greets, sounding far more enthusiastic than Keith is expecting. He's got a thick mustache, and the way it moves when he speaks is mildly distracting.

 

"Who are you?" the wolf grunts, even though the Garrison-issued uniform is a dead giveaway.

 

"Ah, yes, of course." The man looks at him, his eyes twinkling. "I am First Lieutenant Coran Smythe of the Garrison. We are a large military training base, specializing in flight and battlezone simulations. Our purpose is to mold young minds and prepare them to defend our country, and possibly the _world,_ should a war break out that will require their special talents-"

 

"Sure, yeah, _why are you here?"_ Keith cuts him off, growling to show his annoyance at the completely unnecessary military spiel the man -- Coran -- just spewed.

 

Coran wilts, there's no other way to put it. He's clearly put-out by Keith's less than enthusiastic reaction to his presence. He scuffs a polished boot against Hunk's hideously yellow welcome mat, toeing at one of the looping tribal designs and sighing before meeting Keith's narrow, wary eyes.

 

"I am here on behalf of miss Allura Tean," he answers with some strange combination of earnestness and sheepishness. "May I come in?"

 

He's far from what Keith would expect a Garrison officer to be like, but the way he says Allura's name, the curl of fondness through his scent, makes him think that maybe the two of them really are friends.

 

"This isn't my house," he says evasively, gripping the doorknob so tightly that for a second he worries about denting it.

 

"Right, well, I did swing by Hunk's Heaven first." Coran rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Hunk said you were home resting, and that I'd better knock rather than just barging in. If you're not feeling up to this yet, I can go, but the sooner we get all this mess sorted out, the sooner you lot can go back to your regular lives." The smile he gives Keith is probably meant to be reassuring, but he's not in the mood for pleasantries. His earlier peace has been soured by the soldier's appearance; he has a point though.

 

"Just… don't touch anything," Keith growls, stepping back and swinging the door open wide enough for Coran to squeeze through. He slams it behind the man and stalks back to the kitchen, checking his cakes to see how cool they've gotten and nodding to himself.

 

By the time he's finished with the fudge icing, they should be ready.

 

"It's no wonder you and Hunk get on so well," Coran comments from the archway between the kitchen and the main area. "You both enjoy baking, I see." He's eyeing up the raspberry cake closest to him and licking his lips. Keith feels the urge to put himself in front of it and growl to warn the man away. He taps a claw against the counter instead, glaring until Coran gets the message and moves away from his cake.

 

"Right, well." The man clears his throat.

 

"I'm not much of a baker," Keith finally admits, starting the icing base and carefully measuring in what he needs. "I just have nothing else to do until they decide I don't have to be _stuck_ here anymore." He grits his teeth at the pang of angry betrayal. Hunk had said he could keep going out, and now he won't even let Keith go to his _job,_ all because of some taped ribs.

 

"From my understanding, you received quite the thrashing from a few Garrison boys and their Anisapiens?" Coran makes it sound like a question; like he doesn't already know exactly what happened, and how many versions of the story he's heard in the last few days.

 

"Once, when I was thirteen, a Beta Fighter tiger ripped open my stomach." Keith looks at Coran, his eyes glinting, and watches the man's face pale with vicious satisfaction. "She was twice my size. I tore her throat out with my teeth, and my _Owner_ at the time decided that I was worth keeping because of it. They made sure I wasn't going to die, and sent me back into the ring before I was fully healed. So if they think they're doing me a _favor_ by keeping me confined here because they're concerned about my ribs being cracked-" He cuts himself off with a growl, shaking his head and glaring down at his icing.

 

"I know they care," he grinds out between clenched fangs. "Being caged just doesn't sit well with me, regardless of how big the cage is."

 

"Why did your last Owner decide to sell you?" Coran takes a seat at the table, pulling a pad of paper and a pen from the messenger bag that had been slung across his back. He makes a few notes on it, frowning as he concentrates, before looking at Keith again.

 

Keith swallows down a snarl, forcing it back to the bottom of his lungs. "Started costing too much to put me back together again, I guess," he bites out. "Doesn't matter how much money you bring in; if you lose a chunk of it on recovery time and surgeries to fix your prizes, eventually it's not worth it anymore."

 

"Most fighters are destroyed once they outweigh their usefulness," Coran muses. "That was not the case with you. Why?"

 

Keith nearly breaks the measuring cup in his hand. The only thing that keeps him from doing it is the sour taste of Coran's guilt on his tongue. The human has an excellent poker face, but he hates asking these things just as much as Keith hates answering them -- even if the answers he gives are well-fabricated lies.

 

"I'm a Miscellaneous," he replies, tasting the fudge icing and wrinkling his nose. It's fine, he supposes. Just too much chocolate for his liking. "I can be trained to do a lot of things, and I pick them up pretty easily. I guess he thought giving me to the shelter was easiest."

 

"Oh, he didn't sell you?" Coran writes something down, his pen scratching frantically across the paper. "Why not try to gain some of that income back?"

 

"Maybe you can ask _him_ that," Keith snarls. His outburst startles the human, but Coran recovers quickly.

 

"My apologies," he murmurs, fiddling with his pen and looking anxious. "I'm not trying to distress you, Keith, I promise. I just need to be as thorough as possible. Those boys are claiming that you attacked them first, and no one is listening to their Anisapiens. If I can get a better idea about you, and your background, it might help."

 

Keith snorts. "I highly doubt my background as a ring fighter will help," he rumbles. Leaving the fudge icing to set, he digs out a cake knife and starts carefully cutting each layer of the red velvet cake in half, doing his best to keep it even. "All I was trying to do that night was run an errand for my Owner. They were drunk and belligerent. They wouldn't let me leave. They called me Hunk's cock warmer and insinuated that I was only good for a fuck. I don't give a shit what they said about me. I care about the fact that they hit me when I tried to leave."

 

Whether they actually had or not doesn't matter. Whether Keith's first strike had been to make them shut up about _Hunk_ or not is irrelevant. Shiro gave the story to the Garrison wolf to retell, and from the sound of it, he and his packmate have done their job. The fact that no one cares what an Anisapien has to say is just a fact of their lives.

 

"One of the Anisapiens lost his eye during the fight," Coran comments quietly. "He says that he and U64T2410 were ordered to hold you down while the cadets 'disciplined' you, and that you managed to get a foot free. You kicked Z20B9761 and clawed his eye. By the time they returned to the Garrison, it could not be saved."

 

"Because no one cares about spending extra money on a _pet,_ " Keith translates harshly. He takes the buttercream out of the fridge and starts the process of layering the cake, letting the repetition of spreading the icing soothe the tension snapping beneath his twitching skin.

 

"What the fuck do you want from me, Coran? Nothing I tell you is going to matter. Humans will always hold more value than Anisapiens."

 

"There are those who believe the Garrison wolves over the cadets," the man replies evenly. He's still writing things down, but Keith refuses to look at him, choosing to focus on his task. "Aside from cadet Johnson, none of the other boys had many injuries to suggest that you struck first. You are, by far, more injured, which could easily suggest that you managed to get a defensive hit in before they overwhelmed you. Considering your past, one would have to assume that you would have caused a more significant amount of damage before they wrestled you down."

 

Setting down his flat-icing spatula, Keith turns to narrow his eyes at Coran. The soldier returns his suspicion with a mild look of his own, the corner of his mouth ticked up just enough to suggest a smile.

 

"You work for Allura," Keith says. It's not a question.

 

Conan's eyes twinkle. "She is a very old friend, as is her father. I helped raise her, and feed her passions on subjects that resonated deeply with her."

 

"So, you… what? You think it's _possible?_ This idea of hers?" Shaking his head, Keith turns back to the cake, smoothing the last of the icing and frowning. He's not even going to attempt piping a border. If Hunk thinks any of them need one, he can do it himself. There are just some things Keith will not do. The fact that he's spent his day doing _this_ is enough testament to how lax he's let himself become, even if it is soothing.

 

"I think anything is possible, given time and passion." Coran is still jotting things down intermittently, seemingly more interested in what Keith is doing than taking diligent notes. "I'm not saying it's going to happen overnight, or even in a year or two. This kind of thing will take _years._ Maybe even decades. I may never live to see it done, but if enough people take up the cause… you'd be surprised."

 

"It's a pipe dream," Keith scoffs. "It's a _nice_ one, but come on. It's never going to be enough."

 

"Not with an attitude like that," Coran agrees, his disappointment a sharp sting in Keith's nose. "You know," the man continues thoughtfully, and when Keith looks at him, his eyes are distant. His ears perk forward, curious despite his misgivings. "When I was a young boy, I wanted, more than _anything,_ to see space. I wanted to fly amongst the stars, and discover places that most people can only _dream_ about. I wanted to walk on distant planets; explore moons."

 

Ignoring the icing in front of him, Keith tilts his head. "Did you?"

 

"I did, despite the people who told me I never would." Leaning back in his seat, Coran smiles. It's a bittersweet smile, full of love and a pain Keith is familiar with in an abstract way. "I walked on our moon, once. It wasn't the great exploration I thought it would be, but it was still my dream. After that, I joined the air force. It wasn't the same, but it was still freedom in its own way. It was a way to remember my dream.

 

"When I was a little boy, my grandmother had a mantra that carried her throughout her life. And when I was old enough, she passed it along to me. Allura reminds me of that mantra every day."

 

Keith doesn't ask, but he does wait. Coran's words ring with importance, and he might be a hothead with a streak of bitterness a mile wide, but Keith does listen when people talk to him. He just always doesn't agree with what they have to say.

 

Coran puts his notebook away; caps his pen and tucks it into a breast pocket on his jacket. He looks at Keith, his pale lavender eyes warm with understanding.

 

"One voice, crying out amongst many, will never be heard. But when you have many voices, all raised as one… _that_ is when change is born."

 

\---

 

"I thought I'd find you here."

 

Keith grunts, looking out across the mouth of the canyon. His ears are back, but he's not agitated. He feels better than he has in days, even with the damn collar around his throat. He's been mulling over his afternoon with Coran ever since the man left, flipping between annoyance and something that tastes like hope until the churning mess threatened to tear him apart from the inside out. Hunk hasn't fussed when he asked for the collar, and as soon as it was buckled Keith had bolted out the door.

 

Shiro sits beside him, keeping a comfortable distance between them and letting his legs hang over the edge as well; knocking his heels against the dark red sandstone so they can listen to the sand and stone tumble down. He's wearing his gloves again, and a hoodie to protect him from the cold night air.

 

"Why do you wear those?" Keith asks, keeping his voice neutral. He doesn't elaborate, and Shiro doesn't ask, but he watches from the corner of his eye when the lion lifts a hand to look at it, his fingers flexing beneath the thick black leather.

 

"It's… easier," Shiro replies after several moments of silence. "Even for an Anisapien, my arm can be shocking. It puts people more at ease, if they don't see it."

 

"You hide it for _their_ comfort?" Keith asks, and he knows he sounds rude but he doesn't try to stop himself. "Why?"

 

"It's not just for them." Shiro looks at him, and he sees the horrors of countless fights reflected back at him -- blood and pain and death a writhing miasma that swirls just beneath the surface, where their beasts lay chained and snarling.

 

"You can't hide from it," Keith reminds him, quiet and cold.

 

The lion sighs. "I know. But not having to see it every time I look down… helps. It's not as bad as it was, but it's _distinct._ People will remember the monster faster than they'll remember the man, and I want what I say to them to matter more than what they think my nature reflects."

 

"You're still hiding," Keith growls. "That's still _hiding._ Isn't that the opposite of what Allura wants? How will they ever accept you as an equal if you _hide_ from them? It defeats the entire fucking point of her mission."

 

"What about you?" Shiro challenges, his eyes glowing in the moonlight. "You hide behind your aggression because you're too afraid of letting anyone close enough to see that you can be vulnerable. As soon as you realize you're opening up, you jeopardize and undermine your own progress, blaming it on your past so no one will see that you're scared."

 

Keith snarls, his tail raised and his claws digging into the ground. "You don't know a fucking thing about me," he snaps.

 

"I know enough to hear you lying to yourself," Shiro hisses. It's a sliver of the power that had rolled off of him when he had that Garrison wolf pinned to the wall; a shadow of the _danger_ that had been there when he held Keith up and roared in his face the day they met.

 

"You want so desperately to reach out, to be accepted, but you snarl and snap when they try. What do you think is going to happen, Keith? No one is perfect. There's going to be mistakes, but they can be worked through. No one is going to know what you need if you don't _tell them._ If you don't give them _something,_ you have no right to be angry when they tread carefully. It's not pity. It's not hesitation. It's _ignorance,_ because they don't even know where to start. You have friends who want more than anything to prove to you that you can trust them. They're willing to wait for you to come to them, to take whatever you throw at them on your bad days, and they still _try._ What does that say about them? What does it say about _you,_ when you throw it back in their faces?"

 

Shiro doesn't block Keith's first punch, but he does snarl and drag him away from the edge of the canyon. They wrestle, snarling and snapping -- two former casualties of human cruelty, broken and trying to heal in their own ways. Shiro can't do much damage, not with his claws trapped by reinforced gloves, but Keith can. The Alpha Fighter is bigger and stronger than he is, but Keith won his life again and again because he's fast, and _ruthless._ He uses the lion's size against him; clings to the Anisapien's back and twists him to the ground; wraps his legs around Shiro's arm and twists to bend it until the Fighter yowls.

 

A hand tangles in his hair, wrenching his ear until Keith yelps. Shiro drags him off, but he refuses to give up that easily. Even with his ribs taped and radiating pain, he ducks and weaves around Shiro, waiting for his chance. When it comes, he tackles the lion to the ground, his claws biting into the tender skin of the Fighter's throat. Shiro relaxes beneath him, growling deep in his chest even as he submits.

 

"Why do you care so much?" Keith hisses, glaring down at the massive creature he's pinned against the cold desert sand. He knows Shiro wasn't fighting with everything he had. Despite Keith attacking first, he'd been more focused on defense than offense. He'd made sure to keep them from rolling into the canyon. Keith technically won, but it's a hollow victory when his opponent was holding back to prove a point.

 

"Because I was like you," Shiro says quietly. He's not growling anymore, but he's not looking away either. He's staring right at Keith, challenging him to look away from the truth the lion Anisapien is throwing at him with more accuracy than any punch. "You think I don't remember what it was like, that first year after the pits? The loathing; the feeling that anything anyone did was the prelude to an attack? Any scrap of kindness from anyone was just a trick, a way to make me lower my guard so they could stab me in the back as soon as I relaxed enough. I _know,_ Keith. I _get it."_

 

"I'm not you," Keith growls, shoving away from Shiro and stalking back to the canyon. He hears the Fighter get up and follow; watches Shiro sit back down in his periphery, until they're in the same positions they started at.

 

"You aren't," Shiro agrees quietly, after the tension has settled into discomfort. "You're better than I was, a few months out. You can go outside. You can talk to people, and work. You can go out on your own and come back in mostly one piece." The Fighter looks at him, but Keith doesn't meet his searching gaze.

 

"It took a year and a half before Allura could touch me without me trying to kill her."

 

 _That_ makes Keith look at him. "I thought you weren't a violent creature."

 

Shiro meets his disbelieving stare evenly. "Any creature exposed to that kind of violence for long enough either adapts to it, or they die." He looks down at his hand, slowly pulling the glove off to stare at his palm -- black, thickly padded, with long fingers and curved, wickedly sharp claws. He retracts them, then pushes them back out; turns his hand over to stare at the sleek black fur.

 

"I'm not a violent creature _now_ , because I don't have to be. I don't want to be. I have enough to fuel my nightmares for the rest of my life. The things I did to stay alive…" He looks up at Keith again, and he can't hold the lion's eyes. He looks away, baring his teeth.

 

"Sometimes, it's like I never left," he growls. "I'll forget I'm not there. I wake up and I'm tangled in my blankets and I think-" He shakes his head.

 

"Trauma takes time to heal from." Shiro sounds so gentle, so _understanding._ It makes Keith's skin itch, makes him pin his ears back and tuck his tail against his leg.

 

"I'm not a charity case," he spits.

 

"No one said you were, Keith." Shiro runs his ungloved hand over his head, scratching at the back of his neck carefully. "I know you pay for your share of things, even if Hunk says you don't have to. I know you think you have to do this alone, because it's all you've ever known. They want to help, if you'll let them. They won't push, but they will wait until you're ready."

 

"I'll never be ready to talk about it," Keith mutters. He'll never be ready for the way they'll change, when they learn the detailed ways Keith kept himself alive. Coran knows a fraction of it now, but something tells him the human will never share it with anyone regardless of what he wrote down. He could tell Shiro, and the lion may never judge him -- he'd be a fucking hypocrite if he did -- but they aren't friends. Keith sure as hell doesn't trust him with _that_ yet.

 

"You might surprise yourself." Shiro stands and stretches, rumbling in pleasure when his spine cracks. "How are the ribs?"

 

Keith chuffs at him. "They're fine," he says, knowing that the Fighter will hear the lie, and that he won't call Keith out on it, even though he could.

 

"Good." Shiro smiles at him, letting Keith keep his walls. "Try not to freeze, yeah? Hunk will be beyond distraught if he can't thank you for those cakes. You should have heard how proud he was."

 

"Yeah, yeah." Keith waves him away, wrinkling his nose and scowling to hide his embarrassment. "Get lost." Shiro chuckles.

 

"Good night, Keith," the lion purrs quietly.

 

He grunts back, looking up at the stars while he listens to Shiro lope away; wondering what it would be like to stand on the moon and taste the freedom of something so much more vast than his tiny, fractured corner of the world.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith is trying to figure things out in his head. Meanwhile, a newcomer makes their way to Clay Canyon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who is ready for Even More Confusion, and also Bad Things?
> 
> No one? Well, crap.
> 
> This is awkward.

Keith really, really fucking _hates_ Saturdays.

 

There's a tension in the restaurant, so thick and palpable that he can taste it from the kitchen. Every time he sees Lance's face in the window, his expression is darker and darker. Allura has been quiet and clipped ever since they opened, her words sharp enough to cut. Pretty soon, Keith is sure she's going to tear holes in any conversation aimed her way.

 

When Pidge creeps into the kitchen for the third time with the same exact plate of food, her face twisted in helpless, angry misery, Keith is already reaching to untie his apron. Shiro rumbles from his prep station, trying to soothe the rage he can no doubt smell rolling off of Keith, but he refuses to be comforted. Not right now -- not nearly often enough, if he's being honest with himself. He can hear Hunk muttering under his breath, but right now everything in Keith is zeroed in on the plate Pidge looks like she'd rather hurl at the wall than hold. He's got his sights on the sandwich like it's a rabbit, and he's a rabid, starving beast.

 

"They said there's too much mayonnaise," Pidge whispers, barely giving the words enough sound to mean anything; like if she whispers them as quietly as possible, Keith won't hear her over the chaotic sounds of a busy kitchen.

 

Keith fucking hears her.

 

"Eat it, Pidge," he growls, squeezing her shoulder awkwardly to try and convey that he's not mad at _her_. "Put it on my lunch bill and just. Fucking eat it. I'll be right back."

 

"Keith, I don't think-"

 

"I don't care," he snarls at Shiro, gesturing sharply to the two other perfectly good sandwiches sitting at the edge of the closest table. "You want one too? Go for it. I'll be right back."

 

Both Allura and Lance look shocked to see him on their side of the wall, though he can see their growing, horrified realization when he stalks out around the counter and heads toward the loudest, most boisterous table where a familiar head of red hair is shaking with laughter.

 

The cadets grow quiet when they see Keith approaching, sharing smirks amongst themselves. They're all unfamiliar; just another rowdy group of pups dragged into a mess they have no hope of containing once the deal's broken on Keith's anger. He ignores the tables of officers and older cadets around his prey -- they've been watching and allowing the behavior to continue. They're watching Keith now, their expressions unreadable and their scents a jumble of disdain and wary anticipation.

 

Let them fret. He's fucking sick of this game.

 

"Cadet Johnson," he says once he's close enough, and watching the boy's shoulders tense beneath his uniform jacket is a balm to Keith's rapidly fraying control. The boy might think he's in control of a hilarious joke, but just the sound of Keith's voice is enough to make the sour stench of his fear spike through his bravado. The cadet turns to look at him, playing up the bored teenager admirably, but Keith can see it in his eyes.

 

"How is your neck?" he asks mildly. "Do you need some ice chips to soothe your throat?"

 

Johnson scowls, looking him up and down like he's sizing up a sparring opponent. Fuck, Keith hopes he challenges him outright; no one can blame that outcome on Keith, if the little human gets his pride thrashed as thoroughly as his body. All to prove a useless point.

 

"Why would I need ice chips?" he sneers, and his friends snicker, like Keith's question is another hilarious joke.

 

The wolf tucks his hands into his pockets and tilts his head. "I thought that maybe your throat was bothering you," Keith replies, feigning concern like a fucking pro despite the fire burning in his eyes, all for _cadet Johnson._ "Since you can't seem to eat your lunch." He gestures at the human's neck, where clean -- entirely unnecessary -- bandages are taped in place; hiding scratches that have long since scabbed over, from the smell of it. "Do you need us to cut it into smaller pieces for you?" Keith asks, leaning over the boy and letting him see his nostrils flare when he breathes in deeply. "Do you need something softer? Some of the elderly folks around here really enjoy my coworker's graham cracker pudding. Do you think you can handle that?"

 

It's a challenge, a clear _fucking try me,_ and he hears someone at the table beside him cough to cover up their laughter. The dining room is silent, everyone watching Keith and cadet Johnson square off. The regular customers, those who visit Hunk and his crew nearly every day, look outraged; they've all had front row seats to the rowdy cadets. They've watched them send back a plate three times, laughing like they've delivered the punchline to the world's greatest joke.

 

Johnson's face is red, both from embarrassment and outrage. "If a half-trained _puppy_ hadn't clawed me up like some rabid mongrel, maybe I could eat my food," he snaps. His expression shifts to a smirk as he leans back, clearly thinking he's gotten the upper hand back.

 

Poor, stupid child.

 

"If some underage drunk and his friends hadn't jumped an unarmed, harmless Anisapien trying to run an errand for his Owner, maybe you could," he agrees, resting his elbow on the table to prop his chin on his fist; looking bored and arching an eyebrow at the flustered cadet.

 

_Is that the best you've got?_

 

"Like hell I'm eating anything made by some mangy, flea-ridden _dog,"_ Johnson spits.

 

Keith hums, noncommittal, and pushes himself back up to turn toward the kitchen and call, "Hey, Hunk."

 

The man's nervous face appears in the window, assessing the current level of damage before he comes out of the kitchen properly.

 

"Yeah, Keith?"

 

"How long have you been a mangy, flea-ridden dog? Is there something you haven't been telling me?" He asks the question while staring Johnson down, his ears forward and his eyes catching the slow creep of realization across the boy's face.

 

Hunk catches on faster, giving Keith a sheepish grin and holding his hands up when he shrugs.

 

"I mean, I didn't know I was one. Is there something _you guys_ haven't been telling _me?"_ He poses the question to the entire restaurant, grinning wider at the laughter that ripples through the assembled, involuntary crowd. "While I'm out here, I just want to make one thing clear," he goes on when everyone has settled down again. When Hunk points at him, Keith's ears flick back partway.

 

_What are you doing?_

 

"Keith isn't my pet, you guys. He's so much more. But above all, he's my _friend,_ and I will not tolerate the kind of behavior that we've dealt with today." Taking a deep breath, he looks at the table beside Keith -- the table where someone stifled their laughter. "Captain Griffin," he says firmly, and a man lifts his head. He certainly looks like a Garrison officer, tall and lean with sharp eyes and hair that's been slicked back into something professional.

 

"Hunk," he offers in reply, giving Heaven's owner a sharp nod.

 

"If you cannot control your cadets, they will not be allowed back." Hunk crosses his arms, looking exactly like the tank they often call him -- an unmoving force that's nearly unstoppable once he gets going. "Not only have they harassed the wait staff with frivolous and baseless complaints since they arrived, but they've made a clear target out of my Anisapien. Regardless of what's happened in the past, or what your Garrison has decided to do about the situation, I will _not_ tolerate such blatant disrespect. Not against my employees. Do I make myself clear?"

 

Griffin's dark eyes flash. "Crystal. Cadets!"

 

Johnson and all of his friends snap to attention; Keith hears more than one knee slam against the underside of the table as they scramble to face their superior officer.

 

"You will apologize to every single worker in this building," Griffin barks at them. "You will apologize to every customer. You will pay for _every_ sandwich, and for every minute of time you've wasted acting like a bunch of rowdy high-schoolers. I do not give a _shit_ what may or may not have happened. You represent the Garrison with everything you say and do, and today, you have done an appallingly shameful job of it. Know that this is not the end of your punishment. Once we return to the grounds, you will carry out a punishment of my choosing, without complaint. If I hear one grumble -- and believe me, I will hear them all -- you can expect further repercussions. Is that understood?"

 

"Yes, sir!" the boys chorus in unison. Keith can see the mutiny smouldering in their eyes, and clearly, so can Captain Griffin.

 

"If I am not satisfied with the nature of _any_ of your apologies today, the punishment you receive will be twofold. _Understood?"_

 

"Yes, sir," they chant, much more subdued this time. The Captain looks at them all in turn, and then nods.

 

"Pay for your meals; Cadet Johnson, you will pay for those sandwiches. You will _all_ pay for the wasted time, and you will ask Hunk how much you each owe him. Once you have done that, you will go from table to table and apologize. Then you will apologize to his employees, and to him. After that, you will return to the Garrison. Your free day is finished. Dismissed."

 

Keith slips back into the kitchen, brushing his fingers against Pidge's shoulder on his way through the door. She looks at him, honey colored eyes wide behind her glasses, but Keith doesn't say anything as the door swings shut behind him.

 

Shiro is leaning back against his table, a crooked smirk curling across his lips. "Well done," he says, nodding to Keith as he approaches. "I'll admit, I thought it was going to get a little bloody there for a moment-"

 

Keith fists a hand in the lion's shirt and drags him down until they're nose to nose. "We aren't friends," he growls. Shiro's eyes are so dark, like banked storms just waiting to be set free.

 

"We could be," he replies, his words a rumble that digs deep into Keith's marrow. He bares his teeth, growling, and shoves the Fighter back again, holding him in place despite the fact that Shiro hasn't tried to get free at all.

 

"I don't want to be friends with you." Letting go, he spins and stalks toward the side door, his ears flicking back when Shiro rumbles again.

 

"When you're ready, Keith, I'll be here to listen."

 

Glaring over his shoulder, Keith snaps his teeth. "Get a clue," he huffs. Rather than looking irritated or angry, Shiro just looks fondly amused; as if Keith's temper is something he finds endearing.

 

"You first," he purrs.

 

Keith makes sure to slam the door behind him, even if he doesn't leave the alley. He leans against the wall and focuses on breathing, pushing everything else _away_ until he's floating through the closest thing he's ever found to peace -- a void of his own making, dark and glittering with starlight. A place where no one can touch him, and no memories can break through the layers of calm he's painstakingly built. It reminds him of the night sky, his own personal freedom like Coran talked about. It might seem strange to compare the two, but in this place, nothing matters.

 

When he opens his eyes, sinking back into his skin with a sigh, Hunk is waiting with cadet Johnson. The boy looks like he'd rather be anywhere else; if Hunk didn't have a solid grip on his shoulder, Keith is sure the cadet would have bolted already.

 

"Markus has something he wants to say to you," Hunk says, his cheerful words wrapped around an undercurrent of solid steel. "Don't you, Markus?"

 

"I'm sorry," the cadet mumbles, looking at his shoes. When Hunk squeezes down, he yelps and stares at Keith. "Jeez! I'm _sorry._ I was a dick, okay? I'm sorry."

 

Keith doesn't need enhanced hearing to know he's lying, but he knows a lesson has been learned today, so he shrugs and says, "Okay."

 

"That's _it?"_ the cadet scoffs. Keith snarls and snaps his teeth inches from the boy's nose, enjoying his panicked gasp now that his friends aren't around to offer him back up.

 

"In a real fight, little boy, I would _eviscerate_ you," Keith breathes against his cheek. The cadet -- _Markus_ \-- shivers with a very real, very decadent fear. "You think you know what pain is, cadet?" the wolf asks with mock sweetness. He brushes his claws over the bandages and smirks when the boy flinches away from his touch.

 

"You don't know _pain._ If you want, though, maybe I can show you some day."

 

Stepping back, he nods to Hunk, watching the boy bolt as soon as he's free. Hunk is shaking his head, looking at Keith like he can't believe he's real. "What?" he huffs, crossing his arms and trying not to look too defensive. "I wouldn't _actually_ do anything, Hunk, come on."

 

Hunk snorts. "Yes, Keith, you would. Maybe not… all _that_ -" He gestures at the spot where Markus had been standing. "But you'd teach him some kind of lesson."

 

"I don't need to." And the thing is, he doesn't. The violence in him would love nothing more than to drag that kid back with claws in his nape and show him what happens to bitches who bark worse than they bite -- but he's already learned. Maybe not in the way a creature like Keith would teach him, in a world where primal law outweighs human moral, but he's seen enough creatures torn to shreds. Once you're dead, there's nothing left for you to learn.

 

"Oh my God," he realizes, "I sound like Shiro."

 

Hunk _howls_ with laughter, doubled over and clutching at his stomach while Keith tries to come to terms with what has just happened. He's still glaring at nothing, cursing the lion for getting so far under his skin, when Captain Griffin steps around the side of the building and approaches them.

 

"Forgive me for interrupting," he says slowly, coming to a stop and falling into parade rest. "I trust Markus' apology was sufficient."

 

Keith shrugs, his ears relaxed. "Depends on your idea of sincerity," he replies. The human's eyes darken, his anger a spike of heat that Keith waves away. "I'm an Anisapien, remember?" he grunts. "What respect and decency do kids like that owe property like me?"

 

Hunk growls, a surprisingly animal sound for him. "You are _not-"_

 

"They come from privileged families," the Captain cuts in, his eyes fixed on Keith. "Those like cadet Johnson were raised to believe exactly as you've just said. It is the job of their superior officers to teach them that their views are outdated and flawed. It's why we pair them with Anisapiens we think will help ease the transition. They learn to work with a teammate who, in many ways, outclasses them. It's humbling; for some it's even humiliating. But it teaches them that they are not the gods their families raised them to be. In a battle, that Anisapien will hear an enemy before they do. They'll smell a bomb, or toxic gas. That Anisapien can save their life."

 

"Because they were told to," Keith mutters sourly.

 

"Because they _want_ to," Griffin corrects. "Are you telling me that you would not save your friends from danger the second you sensed it? You would leave your pack behind to suffer while you ran ahead to safety?"

 

There's a lot he wants to say to that, but Keith can't find the words for any of it. He looks at Hunk, frowning; thinks _I have no pack,_ and remembers the look on Pidge's face when he touched her shoulder earlier. The scent of Hunk's happiness when Keith leans against him for a rare moment of comfort. He thinks of the barbs he and Lance throw at each other, and how the air never turns bitter, and Allura's small smiles when she pats his arm.

 

Shiro's crooked smile when Keith spat _Get a clue_ and the lion replied _You first._

 

"What the fuck," he barks. Captain Griffin nods, like he understands, and turns to walk away.

 

"The food was as delicious as always, Hunk," he calls over his shoulder, offering the man a smile before he's gone. Hunk stammers happily, smelling like sugar cookies and vanilla.

 

Keith stares at him, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.

 

\---

 

This time, Keith is the one that tracks Shiro down. He finds the lion out in the desert, far away enough from the town not to be disturbed, and far enough away from the canyon to give Keith privacy. This is clearly an area he's spent a lot of time visiting; his scent is everywhere, even with the wind constantly changing the landscape. Keith makes sure he's downwind, slinking silently toward where he can see flashes of Shiro moving quickly between the dunes and valleys.

 

As he gets closer, he realizes that the Alpha Fighter is putting himself through some kind of training practice; moving like he's putting himself through his paces, to keep himself in fighting shape despite the fact that neither one of them have to.

 

"Some things are hard to let go of."

 

Keith jerks, guilty and angry at being caught so easily. Shiro is still working through each set, never looking toward him, so he sits to watch. Out here, away from prying eyes, the lion feels comfortable enough to strip out of his shirt and gloves. Keith maps out the violence branded across his upper body -- claw marks, bite scars, and some twisted, knotted stretches of skin where flesh was torn away in strips and never healed properly. There are burns, and cuts too clean to be anything but knives. There isn't anywhere on Shiro that hasn't been marred in some way; Keith can see claw marks up the side of his neck that must have come close to being a killing blow. He wonders what happened to the Anisapien that left them -- if he died brutally, or if Shiro was merciful and made it quick.

 

There's more fur than he'd realized at first. It crawls up Shiro's arm and down his right side; stretches across his chest in a few spots, and disappears under the waistband of his jeans. The scars that cut through his fur have left white streaks, though when Shiro turns his back to Keith -- an act of trust he's stunned by -- he sees a few bare patches between the Fighter's shoulders, where the damage was too extensive and nothing grew back. This skin there isn't a healthy tan like the rest of him. It's a mottled patchwork of gray and scar-white that stretches more than halfway down his spine.

 

Alpha Fighters are built to be bigger and stronger than any other class of Fighter, and Shiro is no different. The sheer amount of muscle mass makes Keith feel so much smaller in comparison -- he's always been lean and fast, relying on his speed and aggression to incapacitate his enemies quickly. Shiro is more of a tank than Hunk, but he's proven more than one that he's just as fast as Keith. You have to be more than that in the rings and pits, though. Creatures like them have to be feral, but they have to be _smart._

 

Shiro slows from quick, brutal movements to slower, exaggerated stretches as he starts to cool down. The sun hasn't fully set yet, so Keith can see the sweat that hasn't dried in the desert heat; the granules of sand clinging to his wet skin that he brushes away distractedly. His muscles ripple with every movement, his strength liquid and graceful the way only an apex predator can be. He's loose and fluid, every step precise.

 

"I'm not your friend," Keith growls, his nose filled with the thick, musky scent of a virile Alpha male and dry sand dust. He leans back against his dune, glaring while Shiro contents himself with his stretches, looking peaceful and free despite the collar around his throat that suggests otherwise. It's as much of a lie as Keith's, a cover they have to maintain to keep the freedom they've fought so hard to win.

 

"Aren't you?" Shiro purrs, bending down to touch his toes, holding the pose for several long seconds before slowly standing upright. He looks at Keith, scratching at his stomach with the arm Keith is starting to think of as his lion arm, violent claws dragging so gently across his own scarred skin.

 

"Generally, a friendship implies that both sides agree to it." Keith curls his lip, baring a canine. The Fighter tilts his head, his rounded ears flicking forward curiously. There's only a few feet of distance between them when he lowers himself to sit across from Keith, ignoring his shirt despite the fact that the sun is setting rapidly.

 

"Why are you so opposed to companionship?" he asks gently. "Are you that afraid of letting others see you be vulnerable?"

 

"Aren't you?" Keith fires back, dragging his claws through the sand in repetitive, agitated strokes.

 

"Yes," Shiro admits without hesitation. "But there's a freedom in letting other see you at your worst and watching them choose to stay. Do you really think Hunk would just abandon you, if you let him see how scared you are sometimes?"

 

Unsure how to answer that, Keith looks away. Hunk has already seen him at what he considers his weakest point. He didn't know the man then, but he didn't have the strength to fight back either. If it happened again, would Keith trust the human enough to let him help if he was conscious?

 

Shiro has seen him vulnerable, but Keith kept his walls up; lashed out to put distance between them so the lion wouldn't get too close, and Shiro respected his need for space.

 

"They care about you, Keith," Shiro says, and he sounds so _certain._ Like there's never been any doubt in his mind that the people that let Keith share space and jokes with them, even if his are rough and biting, care about him.

 

"How long did it take you?" he asks, still not looking at Shiro.

 

The lion rumbles thoughtfully. "Months. After I stopped trying to attack Allura every time she came close to me, it took months for me to stay calm when she touched my arm, or offered a hug. It doesn't go away overnight, Keith. No one is going to be angry at you if it takes a while. They care about you enough that they understand how difficult this is. No one expects you to be perfect."

 

"We're _not_ friends," he growls, and Shiro just smiles at him.

 

"What are we, then?"

 

Keith sighs, shaking his head and digging his claws deeper into the ground. "I don't fucking _know."_

 

Between one blink and the next, Shiro is in his space. Keith snarls, shoving himself back against the dune until sand grinds its way down his shirt and pants. Shiro is crouched on his hands and feet, leaning closer and using his lion arm to balance himself.

 

"Trust me," he whispers, touching Keith's face. He traces the little scars along his jaw, pausing just below the downy-soft fur at the base of his ear. Keith keeps his teeth bared, ready to bite as soon as Shiro twitches the wrong way. The lion drags his rough thumb pad just below Keith's lip, pulling it down just a little farther and purring when Keith doesn't snap.

 

When Shiro leans closer, Keith's muscles coil. The Fighter drags their cheeks together, his purr so loud that Keith can feel it in his fingers. They twitch and clench on his lap, and Shiro leans back, giving Keith such a warm, tender look that he has to fight not to lash out just to make it stop.

 

"Why did you do that?" he rasps, eyeing Shiro. He breathes easier once there's space between them, his cheek feeling hypersensitive after the scrape of the lion's against it.

 

"I wanted to test something." Shiro's claw touches his bottom lip again, and the Fighter smiles. "Thank you for trusting me, Keith."

 

_How was that even remotely about trust?_

 

Keith opens his mouth, ready with another biting retort, but the sound of approaching vehicles shatters whatever was just growing between them. He scrambles away from Shiro, climbing a taller hill to see the road better.

 

Four jeeps are approaching Clay Canyon, kicking up sand and dust as they fly down the only road in and out of town. There's something on the driver's side door of each jeep, an insignia that he can't quite make out. Blinking, Keith opens his eyes wider, his vision caught between daylight and the fast-approaching night.

 

When he finally recognizes it, he freezes instinctively, his ears flat against his hair and his tail stiff behind him. He licks his lips, tasting sand and Shiro and _danger_ brewing like a slow-moving storm. The jeeps drive into town, hidden by the buildings, but the insignia is burned into his memory -- will be for as long as Keith lives. He can feel Shiro behind him, the lion's easy grace turned tense and intent by the sudden change in Keith. He doesn't look at the Fighter; can't bring himself to look anywhere but at the threat that just rolled into the sleepy little town he's slowly started to think of as _safe._

 

That feeling is gone now. Those jeeps, that mark -- there's only one person Keith knows who uses that crest.

 

_Lotor._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith opens up a little about his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is two days late y'all I'm sorryyyyyy. Life hit hard, so brain didn't want to cooperate.
> 
> But, hey, we're getting somewhere!
> 
> Bonus points to all of you who recognize the Fighter character Keith talks about later on in the chapter. Y'all got this.
> 
> TW: PAY ATTENTION. There's a bit of a panic attack later on, though it never gets blatantly addressed as one. Tread carefully; you'll know when you find it.
> 
> Enjoy~

The entire way back to Hunk's apartment, Keith is hypervigilant. He slinks through the alleys and keeps to the shadows, grateful for the deeper cover night provides. He doesn't see any sign of Lotor, but that doesn't mean a damn thing. Shiro is a silent extension of his shadows, keeping close enough that his breath warms the back of Keith's neck. They don't say a word, even though he knows Shiro has to be full of questions. He's grateful for the silence, and the Fighter's keen eyes, even if Shiro isn't sure what they're looking for.

 

Hunk looks startled when they burst into the apartment, and Keith can't really blame him. He'd run as soon as they were in the building, taking the stairs three at a time and not slowing down until the door is slammed and locked behind them.

 

It takes Keith a moment to realize that he's shaking; his hands are trembling against the door. Panic is a stronger beast than his rage, clawing at his insides and crawling up his throat until his gasps are short, sharp bursts.

 

"Whoa, whoa, hey. Easy. Keith. Shiro, what the hell happened, man?" Hunk is a familiar presence at his side, keeping a few feet between them but reaching out in case Keith needs him. He smells like worry and confusion, and just a hint of smoky anger. His shock spikes when Keith burrows between his outstretched arms, tucking his face into the human's shirt and breathing in his comforting scent.

 

Hunk is slow to hug him, waiting for Keith to jerk away or growl. When he doesn't, the man finally wraps his arms loosely around the wolf, stroking ba calming hand up and down his back.

 

"I wanna help, Keith, believe me. But, buddy, I can't do that if you don't tell me what's going on, you know?"

 

"He's here," Keith whispers, baring his teeth uselessly against Hunk's shoulder. Shiro rumbles, a steady presence behind him that Keith finds comfort in rather than suspicion.

 

Hunk smells like sage, his confusion potent and bitter in Keith's nose with how close they are. "Who? Keith, is someone from the Garrison causing trouble again? Because you _know_ we'll handle that sh-"

 

"It's not the Garrison." Pulling away, Keith glances toward the windows, half expecting to see Lotor's smug, triumphant face looking back at him.

 

"Who is 'he'?" Shiro asks, looking torn between giving Keith space and crowding him against the wall to stand between him and the unknown threat. It's a nice gesture, protective, but Keith isn't the type to let himself be handled like a defenseless pup.

 

"Lotor," he growls, digging his claws into his palms when he clenches his fists. "He was my Owner. I got away from him. Now he's _here."_

 

"He can't know that you are, though," Hunk argues, wide-eyed and nervous but clearly trying to stay calm for his sake. "It's been, like, almost eight months since you got away, right?"

 

"Longer," Keith grunts. "It took me awhile to get to this place. I kept moving to keep him from finding me."

 

"You were covered in blood," Hunk remembers, frowning. "You were still _injured."_

 

"I got into a spat with some coyotes." Keith shrugs. "Figured the less you knew, the better. Most people call control officials as soon as they find an Anisapien that's run away. You didn't, but…"

 

"No, no, I totally get it." The human squeezes his arm gently. "You had your reasons to be suspicious. I don't blame you for that. But we still don't know that you're the reason he's here, right? He's probably just driving through on his way to one of the bigger cities. Right?"

 

Shiro leans against the wall, frowning. Keith can practically see the thoughts swirling behind his eyes like storm clouds rolling in.

 

"Does Lotor travel for fights, or did he keep to a specific ring?" the lion asks after several moments. He meets Keith's narrowed gaze, and he can see _something_ brewing in those dark eyes; a speculative gleam that he doesn't know how to name.

 

"He travels." Closing his eyes, Keith shudders at the memory. "Drugged us to keep us docile, and showed up a day or so early to let it work out of our systems. He wanted his creatures to be completely alert. He'd restrain and muzzle some of us if we were really aggressive, but all of us got sedated."

 

Shiro growls quietly. "I never fought outside the pits, so I didn't have to suffer through that. I'm sorry that you did." He sounds so _sincere._ Keith is beginning to wonder if he'll ever understand Shiro. His moods seem so mercurial at times.

 

"Is it possible that he's here for a fight?" the Fighter continues. "Or passing through on his way to one?"

 

Keith shifts from foot to foot, tugging his collar off and throwing it toward the couch to feel less restricted, less _owned._ Now that he's inside, he doesn't need it anyway. "It's possible," he agrees slowly, wariness and agitation making his skin itch. "It's more likely that he could just be passing through. There's nowhere to fight around Clay Canyon. There's the desert, sure, but a fight would cause way too much noise. _Someone_ would notice. It would have to be underground."

 

"The only place nearby is the Garrison," Hunk says, already shaking his head. "There's _no way_ they'd be fighting there. Their Anisapiens might not be as valued as the human cadets, but they'd never risk that kind of illegal activity. The consequences would be astronomical."

 

"If they _are_ here to find a fight, then we might need the Garrison." Shiro scratches at his chin with dark claws, seeming unconcerned that he hasn't pulled his gloves back on yet despite Hunk watching them. "They're a military training base, but they still have more than enough sway to crack down on illegal fighting. They can hold anyone until the proper authorities show up to handle Lotor and his crew."

 

"That's insane," Keith argues. "He's been doing this for a hell of a lot longer than I've been alive, okay? He's not going to be stupid enough to get himself caught in some tiny desert town!"

 

"That's just it, though." Shiro digs through his hoodie pocket to pull out his phone. "Clay Canyon is a tiny blip on the map. It's got a small police force, but it's quiet, and it's miles away from any major city. The Garrison is close, but this is an independent town. It's the perfect blend to breed arrogance and complacency in someone like Lotor."

 

"What makes you so sure?" Keith wants to agree more than anything, but he knows Lotor. He won't be easy to catch, not if he's been fighting Anisapiens for decades. Few of his prizes lose, and not many survive an escape attempt. The only reason Keith got away was because he had _help._

 

Shiro looks at Keith, his phone pressed to his ear as he waits for someone -- probably Allura -- to answer. He looks fierce, and determined, his eyes sharp and his upper lip curled enough to show a hint of fang. He looks every bit the Alpha Fighter that's scented his enemy's weakness, and looking at him makes something in Keith's stomach twist.

 

"Because that's how Allura and her father found me."

 

\---

 

"Here."

 

Keith looks up when Pidge sets a steaming mug beside him, his nose automatically picking up the scents of melted chocolate and cinnamon. He takes it carefully, letting the heat warm his palms.

 

"Thank you," he grunts, breathing in the scents and remembering the first time Hunk ever offered him hot chocolate. "You didn't have to."

 

Pidge shrugs and sits beside him, resting her elbows on her spread knees with a sigh. "I know," she says, offering him a small smile. "I wanted to, though. You look like you've had a rough night."

 

_Smooth, curious hands tilt his face up; the overhead light blinds his sensitive eyes, but he can't get free. Not with so many drugs coursing through him, keeping him muggy and complacent._

 

_"I admit, I hadn't expected him to do so well."_

 

_He can vaguely make out the narrowed eyes watching him, but the details are dull and smudged._

 

_"You are a violent little thing, aren't you?" A finger strokes down his cheek, following the shallow claw marks that have already been clean and taped._

 

_"One would think you've been mispurposed. You'd make quite a Fighter. I'm going to enjoy watching others underestimate you."_

 

"Keith?"

 

Blinking, he looks at Pidge from the corner of his eye. "Sorry. What?" There's too many emotions raging through him. His skin feels too tight; the walls press in around him. Even with the morning sun spilling across the floor and chasing the shadows away, he feels trapped. It doesn't help that all of them are crammed into Hunk's small apartment -- even Coran, who came when Allura called him.

 

"Did you sleep at _all?"_ Pidge wonders, reaching up to brush some of the hair out of his face. For once, Keith doesn't flinch away from the contact, his eyes following the curls of steam rising from his mug.

 

"No," he mutters, finally taking a sip. He grimaces at the initial sweetness, but once it mellows on his tongue, he sighs and enjoys the flavors. "Even if I had, I would have had shitty dreams."

 

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

 

"We could beat the shit out of this guy," Lance offers. They both look as worried and as protective as they smell, something he's still trying to get used to. After so long of having no one to care about what happened to him, it's still something he's struggling to adjust to. He's gotten better, but he knows there's still a long road ahead of them all.

 

Coran approaches slowly, obviously trying not to intrude on the moment. There's nothing much Keith can say to Pidge or Lance, other than to call the man an idiot, so he looks at the First Lieutenant and raises his eyebrows, his ears flicking forward to show he's listening.

 

"Keith, I know this isn't going to be an easy task for you, and I am sorry to have to ask." His regret makes Keith want to sneeze; it stings his nose like burned coffee.

 

"What?" he grumbles, dread already a heavy stone sitting in his stomach. He has a feeling he knows what Coran is about to ask, and he's not looking forward to it.

 

Shiro chooses that moment to intervene, clearing his throat to draw their attention. "Can this wait until after breakfast?" he asks. He sounds sincere enough, but Keith can taste the protectiveness in the lion's scent like chocolate on the back of his tongue. "We'll all probably function a little better with some food in our stomachs," he adds, cajoling. "Hunk has made quite a spread for us all."

 

"It can wait," Coran allows, and he looks relieved. The officer nods to Keith and makes his exit quickly, Lance and Pidge following. Before Keith can set his mug aside, Shiro is in his space, brushing strands of his unruly hair away from his face.

 

"You don't have to do this, Keith," he murmurs. Keith holds his breath, looking up at the Alpha Fighter staring back at him with so much tenderness it makes his throat tight. "I know there are things we _need_ to know, but you don't have to tell us everything. You're allowed to keep your secrets."

 

"Were you?" Keith rasps. Shiro is still touching his face, rubbing a thumb back and forth beneath his eye like that will be enough to wipe away the tiredness that's making Keith too sluggish to retaliate.

 

"Until I was ready to share them," Shiro says, nodding. He's still touching Keith, their faces so close that he can see the lighter and darker flecks scattered like stars through Shiro's eyes. Keith would think he's been drugged, but he's never felt this lucid and this disoriented at the same time.

 

"What do you want from me?" he whispers. Shiro's rumble reminds him of thunder, but the storm is too far away to worry about just yet.

 

"Nothing you aren't willing to give."

 

When the lion steps away, he feels _cold._ Keith shakes his head, his ears drooping back as he tries to fit the puzzle pieces together. There's too many of them, and the shapes aren't right; he needs time to figure out the pattern. Time isn't really on their side though, so he tries to push his confusion away until he has a moment alone to breathe.

 

As soon as he stands up, Shiro touches his hair, the scratch of the Fighter's claws dulled by his gloves. "Have you thought about cutting your hair?" he asks curiously. "It might help, just in case."

 

_Just in case Lotor really is here looking for you._

 

"It's crossed my mind," Keith admits quietly. They aren't as close as they were, but everything still feels so private. The humans are in the next room, joking and eating and waiting for them, but Keith doesn't know how to step away from the sudden, confusing tension crackling between them.

 

"I don't really trust anyone enough to come near me with scissors though. They might hack off one of my ears."

 

In response to that, Shiro lightly touches the base of his left ear, making it flick and twitch. "Would you trust me enough to?" he wonders, looking at Keith's wild hair. Somehow it's worse than the Fighter looking right at him; Keith needs to get away and breathe fresher air.

 

"Sure," he spits out brusquely, ducking around Shiro and heading for the table thankfully hidden out of sight in the kitchen. Anything to stop that searing stare from burning him to nothing. "C'mon, they're waiting for us."

 

The lion follows, smelling content. Not smug, or pleased. _Content._ It sticks in Keith's mind like a burr, keeping him quiet and lost in thought as he sits at the table. He ends up between Hunk and Allura, and Shiro is thankfully at the end of the table beside Lance. Pidge is across from Keith, and she offers him a warm smile but doesn't try to engage him in any kind of conversation. No one does, which gives him the opportunity to keep his head down and pick through his breakfast without constant interruptions.

 

Hunk went all out to feed them -- but then again, when doesn't he? He's been driven to feed others since long before Keith first met him; he vividly remembers the human fumbling through multiple dishes in his desperation to get the half-starved Anisapien curled up in the corner of his living room to eat _something._

 

Today, the food tastes bland. He knows it's because he's stressed. Memories of Lotor haunt behind his eyelids, flaring to life like snapshots from a movie every time he blinks. His scars ache, even the oldest ones; memories carved into his flesh that he can never wash away, no matter how hard he scrubs.

 

Something touches the outside of his calf. Blinking, he checks under the table and nearly chokes when he sees the tip of Shiro's tail curl against his pants. Hunk's table isn't _that_ big, despite all of them cramming themselves around it. Shiro may be at the end of the table, but that's really only a few feet away -- close enough, apparently, to react to Keith's scent by brushing his tail against the wolf's leg. When he looks up, the lion is deep in conversation with Coran. As he watches, he sees those dark eyes flick toward him before darting away quickly; Shiro's tail tickles at his bare ankle before it's gone.

 

"Keith?" Lance is watching him. "Are you alright, man? You look like you've seen a ghost or somethin'."

 

"I'm fine, Keith grits out, sounding unsteady even to his own ears. "Last bite went down a little rough." He clears his throat, glaring at nothing in particular.

 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Shiro's lips twitch.

 

\---

 

"You may start whenever you're ready, Keith."

 

Coran is sitting across from him, ankle propped on his knee and a fresh new notepad waiting on his lap. "Everything you can think of," he coaxes quietly. "Even if you don't believe it's relevant. Even if it hurts. The more you can tell us, the better."

 

Keith shifts on the couch, agitated despite -- and partially because of -- Shiro's presence behind him. "Don't you guys have some national database you can get your shit from?" he snaps.

 

Coran twirls his pen, his fingers surprisingly dexterous. "Not if he's been able to fly under the radar for so long, my good man. We are a military training base, not the FBI. And you, Keith, are stalling."

 

Caught, he leans back with a sigh. "He bought me from a breeding center," he mutters, his ears flattened and his tail stiff where it's tucked against his leg.

 

The First Lieutenant writes that down. "Do you remember where?"

 

"Southern California somewhere. I was more than old enough to be bought, so it wasn't an illegal sale. He told them I was going to be a travel companion. When he found out that my purpose is Miscellaneous, he said that was perfect."

 

"What do you remember about his house?"

 

Keith snorts. "I never saw his house. We went right to a building. I thought it was a Walmart or something like that at first. It looked like one of those kinds of superstores.

 

"It reminded me of a club, inside. I'd seen some during videos and watching shows. Like, a gentleman's club. There were people staring at me until we downstairs."

 

"Can you tell me about where you were kept?" Coran's voice is gentle, soothing. He's speaking to Keith like he's a cornered animal -- like he'll lash out if the man is too loud. It rankles, but he tries to breathe through the anger.

 

"They kept us in the cages, primarily. Caught us on catch poles to take us to the ring. If we were injured badly but we were worth it, we got patched up in the medical room and left in our cage to heal."

 

"Worth it?" Coran prompts. The charred, swirling stench of mingled anger and horror coming from his friends is making Keith's stomach churn. He swallows a mouthful of ashy, sour saliva; licks his lips and yawns until his jaw aches -- trying to work the tension out. A hand squeezing his shoulder gently makes him jump; learned instinct has him spinning with a snarl to face the Alpha Fighter touching him.

 

Shiro cups the side of his face and croons, freezing Keith in a half-crouch, his claws still; caught in the act of coming up to tear and rip. "You're doing so well, Keith," the lion purrs, stroking his cheek with a thumb. "Just a little bit more, okay? We just need a little bit more, and then we can be done. I promise. Okay?"

 

Mute, Keith nods. He turns to look at Coran, staying crouched and pressing against the back of the couch so hard his shoulder aches.

 

"Some of them weren't good enough," he mutters after a tense moment of gritting his teeth and fighting the words; forcing them to submit so he can get them out and tell the Garrison officer what he wants to hear. "If a fighter got torn up in a smaller-scale fight, and it wasn't worth the cost to patch them up, they died in their cages. Sometimes new fighters replaced them right away. Sometimes it took a while."

 

Coran is writing so fast that his pen is a blur. Pidge looks horrified and sick, a hand covering her mouth. Beside her, Allura has tears on her cheeks. Hunk's eyes are closed tightly, and Lance looks pale.

 

"You were a decent fighter then, I'm guessing?" Coran continues after a moment of silence where the scent of horror only grows thicker.

 

Chewing the side of his tongue, Keith nods sharply.

 

_"So much spark for a Miscellaneous. It's as if you were born to be a Fighter."_

 

"Yeah," he rasps. "I was always more aggressive, even at the center. When he put me in fights, I just-" Growling, he shakes his head hard; maybe, if he shakes it hard enough, he'll knock all of the memories somewhere that they can't reach him. Only Shiro's nails scratching gently at the base of his skull still him.

 

"I survived," Keith rumbles, glaring hotly at Coran. "They didn't."

 

"I think that's enough for now," Allura whispers suddenly, her voice thick. "Coran, do you have what you need? Can we take a break?"

 

"It's certainly a good start," the man mutters, flicking through his pages of notes thoughtfully. "Thank you, Keith. I know that was anything but easy for you."

 

_"You're such a violent little thing. It's so easy for you, isn't it?"_

 

Keith shoves himself up off the couch and stalks toward his room, grinding his teeth so hard that the tendons in his neck strain. His chest is a black hole, sucking everything in until he's got nothing left to stand on that isn't crumbling.

 

A broad hand catches the door before he can slam it shut behind him. Shiro is an immovable force crowding into his space, solid and broad enough to wrap around Keith. He catches the claws that lash out toward him; presses his nose to each of Keith's twitching palms. Being pulled in is like fighting against the tide when he's got no strength left; Keith can't get away no matter how much he wants to.

 

If he's being honest with himself, he doesn't know how much he actually wants to anymore, and that is a terrifying realization.

 

He ends up with his nose pressed against Shiro's collarbone, fingers stroking his palms until his hands relax. Shiro tucks them between them, lets Keith dig them into his hoodie and yank; rumbles and wraps his arms around the wolf.

 

Keith's shaking. He's growling, his emotion muffled by a mouthful of fabric he doesn't remember biting into. Shiro's face is pressed into his hair, nose tucked against one of Keith's trembling ears.

 

_"This is the only purpose you will ever be meant for. Things like you can never adapt, no matter what they say. You will die fighting, I'm sure. It will be glorious to watch."_

 

Eyes shut, he rubs his forehead against Shiro's chest hard enough to hurt, shuddering and snarling weakly while gentle fingers stroke up and down his spine. He feels the steady rise and fall of the lion's chest and tries to copy it. Shiro purrs, and it reverberates down to his core, jarring something loose.

 

"You did so well, Keith," Shiro whispers. "I'm so proud of you. We all are. It's almost over. You don't have to talk anymore; it's almost over."

 

"I'm going to kill him," Keith growls. He hears fabric tear beneath his claws, but neither of them care. "I'm going to fucking kill him."

 

"Yes," Shiro agrees, fierce and pleased. "I know you will. And none of us are going to try and stop you."

 

"Good." Resting his head against the Fighter's shoulder, he breathes out roughly. "What the hell is this, Shiro? What the hell are we doing?"

 

Shiro licks his hair, and he startles at the intimate touch. He recognizes it for what it is, but no one has ever tried grooming him before.

 

"We're learning," the Fighter says simply, which is an answer and not one at the same time, but Keith knows it's the best one he's going to get.

 

Somehow, it's not that bad. It makes what he wants to say next come a little easier.

 

"There was a Beta Fighter," he murmurs, and he _feels_ Shiro's interest sharpen. "U17A5017. He was a mountain lion. A good fighter. He was the only one I talked to, in the cages. None of us wanted to get to know each other. It just made it harder."

 

_"If you don't eat, pup, you won't live. I want to see you live."_

 

"He got free one night, while they were taking him out for a fight. Killed the Handlers and got my door open. We got out through one of the tunnels they took the bodies down, to get rid of them. He stayed by the doors, told me to go."

 

_"Come on!"_

 

_"It will be far easier to catch us if we go together." Teeth bared, the Beta Fighter hisses at him. "You have more of a chance than I do. Go!"_

 

 _"We can_ make it," _he insists, trying to tug the mountain lion's arm to drag him through the door. "Come on! They're almost here!"_

 

_"All the more reason for you to go!"_

 

_The Fighter shoves him, hard, and he tumbles out the door, hitting the ground with a grunt. It slams shut behind him, locking him out, and he howls. Gets up and throws himself against it before he runs, knowing he has no choice. Knowing what U17A5 has done, to give him the chance to live._

 

_Rage burns hotly in his chest; sorrow makes his eyes sting. There are no friends in the ring though. They don't have that luxury._

 

_He keeps running._

 

"He covered your escape." Shiro is still nosing at his hair, snuffling and chuffing quietly. Keith wants to shove him away -- _doesn't_ want to, at the same time -- but he's so tired. More tired than he's been in a long time, so he leans against Shiro and closes his eyes.

 

"He could have come too," he mutters. "We would have made it."

 

"He made his choice, on his own terms. I'm sure, to him, it was more than enough."

 

Shiro shifts, bringing Keith closer and leaning back against the chest of drawers he never bothers to use. He uncurls his hands from between them; drops them to tug at the hem of Shiro's hoodie for no real reason; curling his fingers into the soft fabric and feeling the warmth of the lion's skin so close to his knuckles.

 

"I'm going to fucking kill Lotor," he growls again, solid in his conviction. "I'm going to tear him to pieces."

 

Shiro growls, low and pleased, his scent thickening with interest; Keith feels an answering echo low in his abdomen. It makes him shudder, unused to the feeling and unsure how to name it. It's interest and _something_ ; nothing he's ever experienced before, but not _bad._ It's like a memory that's so old he's almost forgotten it.

 

"I look forward to seeing it," the Fighter rumbles against his temple. "I know you'll give him exactly what he deserves."

 

This time, when he licks Keith's hair, he doesn't flinch away.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to talk about the elephant in the room. Well, one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey yes hi hello.
> 
> Um. It wasn't supposed to be this long of a wait. I'm so sorry. Between a persistent migraine and now a cold, I have been a miserable and unmotivated puppy.
> 
> Please accept my heartfelt apology with a little over 5k of Keith trying to figure out Feelings while also being a badass.
> 
> I hope you all like it. Also, if you squint, there may or may not be a blink-and-you-miss-it bit of Hunk/James. I don't know why, okay, it just wrote itself in there and I'm just *whines*
> 
> Anyway. Enjoy!

Someone has been watching Keith for three days. He can feel it like a prickle along the nape of his neck; like the phantom drag of claws scraping lightly over his skin. Every time he steps outside, he can feel it within moments. It's making him paranoid and irritable, though he's trying his best not to take it out on Hunk and the others.

 

Shiro touches him, drawing his wandering eyes from the shadows that cling to the sides of buildings. The lion cups the back of his head, fingers sliding easily through the shortened hair that Keith let him cut two days ago. Of all their interactions, Shiro carefully cutting his hair down to something more manageable is the one that has left something burning beneath his skin. He shivers when one clawed finger carefully drags along the base of his ear; finds the Fighter's storm-dark eyes and licks his lips. Shiro watches, rumbling quietly, and Keith tastes ozone on his tongue.

 

"Sorry. Did you say something?"

 

"You feel it again," the Anisapien says -- a statement, not a question. "Have you felt it inside anywhere?"

 

Keith shakes his head. "Not yet. If I felt it anywhere, it would be at the restaurant, but there's been nothing there."

 

"It's too populated." Shiro coaxes him closer to nuzzle his temple. He feels the lion inhale, hears it so loudly with his twitching ears. His skin sparks where Shiro touches, like he's left tiny bolts of lightning behind with every brush of his fingers.

 

This intimacy is new, and confusing, but the Fighter never pushes for more. Not the way that Keith is used to seeing from the humans that walk around drenched in each other's scents. The Alpha Fighter touches him boldly, but with patience. It's new and dizzying, and nothing at all like when Hunk or the others seek affection.

 

The idea of _friends_ is still foreign to him, but Keith understands that this strange group he's found himself a part of is more than just a handful of passing thoughts. They stick to him like painless burrs, hooking beneath his skin in ways no one ever has before. He finds himself protective of Pidge and Lance. He's come to respect Allura and Coran. Hunk is someone he respects on an entirely different level; a soul that shines so brightly, but never blinds. He lights up the lives of those around him, and Keith is drawn to his radiance like a moth.

 

They have all become pack. _Friends._ Keith is still adjusting to that particular flavor; it reminds him of hot chocolate and cinnamon.

 

"I've lost your attention again."

 

Shiro says it playfully, growling the words against his temple. Keith looks up at him, putting a few inches between them so he can tilt his head back to meet the Fighter's intense focus.

 

"Got a lot on my mind," Keith says, flicking one of the lion's soft ears just to watch Shiro's eyes flash at the challenge. His growl lacks any kind of threat, which makes Keith grin wolfishly. "Come on. We're supposed to be somewhere right now."

 

"And we would have been there already, if you didn't stop every few feet to daydream." A gentle lick softens the words into something teasing, something that Keith can accept with a crooked smirk rather than lashing out.

 

"Maybe I'm trying to make sure you don't fall behind, old man," he retorts. Shiro growls, his eyes gleaming; a broad, human hand squeezes the nape of his neck to draw him closer. Keith stops breathing, trying not to flood his senses with the lion's scent.

 

Their noses bump.

 

"If you'd like, I can show you how _youthful_ I can be," the Fighter purrs. Keith shoves him away, shaking his head to clear it. He appreciates how easily Shiro lets himself be moved; the way he gently rubs the inside of Keith's wrist, not quite willing to lose all contact, but more than willing to give the wolf his space.

 

"We really should go," Keith mutters, turning his wrist to scratch Shiro's palm gently -- an apology and a thank you in one. "They'll send out a search party if we aren't there soon."

 

"Mmm." Shiro lets him go and Keith leads the way toward Hunk's Heaven, feeling his skin tingle warmly where the lion touched it. He rubs his wrist, mulling over all of the different pieces of the puzzle he's come to think of as Shiro's. Contact still isn't something that comes easily to Keith, but he's trying. The more the others touch him, the less he recoils. It's been a slow process, one that they've been more than willing to let him dictate. Some days, any kind of contact is enough to send his mind screaming back to cold floors and dark metal bars -- the bruising grip of the Handlers and the roar of an Anisapien determined to kill him. On those days, even Shiro gives him space. _Especially_ Shiro. He stays close, but they all let Keith be the one to initiate, if he's going to at all.

 

He is by no means making leaps and bounds in terms of progress, but he's better than he was a month ago, before Allura and Shiro showed up in Clay Canyon and attempted to turn everything Keith considered _safe_ into questions he wasn't sure how to answer anymore.

 

 _Baby steps,_ Shiro has soothed, when Keith was getting frustrated the last time he had a bad day. _There is no rulebook to progress. You move at your own pace, and we'll follow._

 

The next day, Keith had pushed the scissors into his lion hand and dared the Fighter to question him with a glare. Shiro had been surprised, and then _pleased,_ and his rumble still finds its way into Keith's thoughts and his dreams.

 

Everyone is already waiting for them at the restaurant. It's closed thanks to it being Sunday, but Hunk had mentioned making more bread like Keith had done before, and having more room to work was definitely appealing. The others had all expressed interest in turning into a group activity, and now here they are.

 

Captain Griffin is also there, with a familiar-looking Garrison wolf. Keith tenses at the sight of them, his lips twitching back to bare his teeth. Shiro rubs a broad palm down his back, purring soothingly.

 

"Why are they here?" Keith snaps, glaring at them and skirting along the opposite wall to keep plenty of space between himself and the wolf. U6 watches him, his ears drooping and his tail tucked between his legs.

 

"Prime opportunity," Captain Griffin replies, seeming unconcerned with Keith's reaction to them. He's not wearing his uniform today, dressed down in a pair of jeans and an old band t-shirt. "Hunk invited us," he adds.

 

"They can be tasters," Hunk agrees enthusiastically. "And this way, we're doing something relaxing while we all talk. James wanted to run something by us, so I invited him."

 

Keith narrows his eyes. "James?"

 

"I do have a first name," the soldier says mildly, his lips twitching up into a smile. After a moment, his expression smooths out into something neutral again. "We have news that we thought it would be best to share with all of you, and this seemed like the most fitting time."

 

"We?" Shiro prompts.

 

U6's ears flick back nervously, his golden eyes fixed on the tile between his feet. Keith stares at him, his hackles bristling and his lips curled back enough to show a hint of teeth.

 

"I don't give a fuck about anything he has to say," he growls. The Garrison wolf flinches like Keith has taken a swipe at him, pressing closer to his commanding officer in a clear grasp at comfort.

 

"Keith," Hunk says, his tone scolding, "James and U6 are my guests today. They've been helping Coran try to uncover more about what Lotor has been doing here. I _need_ you to be civil." His tone brooks no argument, but his brown eyes are pleading when Keith glares at him.

 

_Play nice, just for now. For me. Please._

 

After a moment, he looks away from the human, clenching his jaw. "I'm gonna bake a cake," he grunts. He's not _trying_ to be difficult. He just has no interest in trusting the wolf throwing uncertain glances at him every few seconds. If he thinks he's being subtle, he's not, but Keith does his best to ignore the Anisapien as he stalks toward his preferred mixer.

 

"Alright!" Hunk claps his hands together, trying to inject some cheer into the tense air. "Bread is really easy and _really_ annoying at the same time. The sooner we get started, the earlier we'll all get to go home. James, you stick with me; I'll show you the ropes. The rest of you, pick a recipe and have fun!"

 

Shiro gravitates toward him while the others chatter and argue playfully over what kind of bread they want to start with. Keith isn't looking at the lion, but he can feel him -- a presence that has become so familiar that it fits alongside the other slivers of Keith's cracked soul. Most days, he's nothing more than broken shards jumbled together, desperately trying to make something whole. Shiro isn't a natural piece, he doesn't quite fit in the way he should, but there's something almost soothing about it now.

 

When a gloved hand brushes against his nape, Keith breathes out slowly but doesn't flinch. Shiro strokes down his spine, calming without being patronizing, and he turns to eye the Fighter.

 

"Not in the mood to bake bread?" he asks quietly, his hands quick and sure as he gathers the ingredients he'll need.

 

"In a moment," Shiro says, following Keith with his eyes. The lion's tail curls against his, the brush of their fur a shock that Keith isn't expecting. He stares down between them, seeing the contrast between Shiro's short, dark fur and his own longer, mottled hair. His fur is thicker than the bigger Anisapien's, but he feels every twitch like a tiny lightning strike.

 

"What are you doing?" His voice doesn't shake -- he's not some wilting violet in the harlequin romance novels he knows Allura loves to read -- but he does sound confused. He _is_ confused. No one has ever touched his tail unless they were trying to break or otherwise maim it. No one has touched him like Shiro touches him -- patient, calm, expecting nothing in return. _That_ gets Keith more than anything; the fact that Shiro doesn't expect anything in return.

 

 _Whatever you're willing to give me._ That's what he'd said. It's novel, in a way. Everything about the last few months has been surreal, like he's been living in a constant, livid dream. Everything feels real, but soon enough Keith is going to open his eyes and be back in that cage.

 

"Hey," Shiro purrs, pressing his nose against the side of Keith's head. "Stay here, with us. Don't go away."

 

"I'm not going anywhere," Keith mutters, focusing on mixing his dry ingredients so he doesn't get distracted by the warm little puffs of Shiro's breath against his skin. "I'm just making a cake."

 

"You were," the Fighter says, cupping the other side of his head and tapping gently. "Going in here is still going away. Stay." He says it like he's asking, his voice soft and sweet; he pushes gently, but fully respects Keith's boundaries. If the wolf snarls and snaps, Shiro will give him space. If Keith accepts, they'll move forward from here. Everything about them is a snail's crawl, but Shiro seems content to go however fast or slow Keith is feeling that particular day.

 

The part of him that longs for pack soaks it up like a sponge, always starving for _more._ On the other hand, the broken and jagged pieces of him aren't quite smoothed out enough yet not to cut when someone presses the wrong way.

 

"Keith."

 

"Sorry," he sighs, rubbing the back of his wrist against his cheek and ignoring the feeling of flour that stays behind. Baking is messy, there's no getting around that. "Just… Got a lot on my mind, Shiro."

 

"I know." The lion nuzzles him again, his rumble soothing something in Keith. "If you need me, I'll be trying to keep Coran from creating his own concoction."

 

Keith snorts. "Good luck. You're a saint." When Shiro grins at him, he grins back; lets his eyes follow the lion as he walks away and licks his lips before guiltily ducking his head.

 

"Catching Lotor is going to take cunning," Griffin says once they've all settled into their tasks. Keith looks up from his cake, pausing with his spatula in the peanut butter. The Captain looks grim, but the wolf thinks that that might just be his constant state of existence. "From the sound of it, he's had decades to learn and perfect his… craft." The soldier glances at him, and Keith clenches his jaw to keep from baring his teeth. "He's clearly not stupid," the human continues after a moment. "Most illegal fighters get overconfident and sloppy the longer they stay in the business. Newcomers are arrogant and easy enough to catch, but Lotor has learned to stay below the radar well enough that there really isn't much information on him."

 

"So what you're saying is that you haven't got a damn clue," Keith surmises, his voice tight.

 

"We have what you've told us," the Captain replies. "We have his presence here, and we've been keeping an eye on it. He's gone to Drumville twice already, but neither time was long enough to suggest he went for fights."

 

Drumville is almost two hours away, and the city is definitely large enough to have at least two different rings. Why stay in Clay Canyon then? Why not pick a closer spot and camp out? There has to be places in Drumville he could have stayed without drawing attention.

 

Something in Keith goes cold.

 

"He knows I'm here." The words come from him, but his mouth is numb; he doesn't realize they're his at first. The others are all watching him with mingled disbelief and nervousness, but Shiro--

 

Shiro's eyes are dark, his tail flicking.

 

"How could he know?" Allura argues, though she sounds uncertain. "You aren't even sure where you ran from, Keith, and you said you ran for a _while_ before you came here. How could he know?"

 

Keith swallows, ignoring the way his throat feels tight. "Someone's been watching me. I feel it every time I go outside. He _knows_ I'm here."

 

Captain Griffin crosses his arms, frowning skeptically. "I'm not saying you're wrong," he starts, and Keith bristles at his tone, "but could your fear be making you hypervigilant? Any looks can seem threatening, even if they're just glances from strangers or people you already know. You've been through a hell of a lot, Keith. It's possible-"

 

"The last time I felt like I was being watched, _he_ showed up." Keith jerks his head toward Shiro and the lion's ears flick forward. His eyes are still dark, assessing; fathomless. He's watching Keith like a predator ready to snatch up his prey and run- _no._ Not quite like that. But Keith doesn't know what else to compare it to. It makes his skin prickle and his ears go back, his tail stiff behind him.

 

"I know what I feel," he growls at Griffin. After a tense moment of them staring each other down, the man nods.

 

"If you're right, and he does know that you're here, then him choosing to stay so far away from Drumville makes sense. He has at least two Anisapiens with him, from what we understand. Is it common for him to take more than one to outside fights?"

 

"It's more common for him to take at least five." Keith digs his claws into the edge of the table, gripping so hard he feels the wood buckle. "More wins, more money."

 

"So why only two?"

 

"I don't know," he snarls. "Why don't you ask him?"

 

Shiro growls, loud and dangerous. U6 flattens his ears against his head at the sound, pressing himself back against the wall like he can sink through it if he tries hard enough. His fear burns Keith's nose to the point that he has to cover it and breathe through his mouth. He can still taste it, sharp and sour on his tongue, but it's dulled enough to keep him from lashing out.

 

"Is this a debriefing, or an interrogation?" the lion asks, soft and dangerous. He prowls closer to Griffin, his lips twitching back to show his fangs. Griffin looks composed and unconcerned, but Keith smells the pulse of nerves through his scent; hears the quick stutter of his heartbeat.

 

Captain Griffin is wary of the Anisapien stalking toward him. He's almost _afraid._ He hides it well, but there's only so many secrets you can keep from a creature with better senses than a human could ever hope to have.

 

Shiro rumbles again, looking down at the Captain once they're face to face. He's so much taller and broader than the man. He could tear through him easily, and they both know it, but Keith can see restraint ripple across his frame. The Alpha Fighter doesn't like to fight, but something has him riled up.

 

"Shiro," Keith says quietly, meeting the lion's gaze when it finds him. Shiro chirps, curious. Keith chuffs back and tilts his head, tired beyond reason. Everything has gone to hell, and part of him expected that it would, but he hadn't counted on Shiro's reaction.

 

"I don't know why he only has two Anisapiens with him," he tells Griffin flatly. "I don't know what he's planning. If I _knew,_ he'd already be dead. He's not an idiot, like you've said. So, knowing what we do, pitifully sparse as the information is, what are your people planning to _do_ about it?"

 

Shiro steps around the Captain and comes to stand by Keith. A broad hand covers his, gently coaxing his claws out of the splintered wood of the table. Keith lets him, glaring down at the mess of flour and sugar scattered across his workspace. A thumb kneads into his palm, working out the tension; Shiro's lion hand rests against the dip of his spine.

 

"Bait him," Griffin replies quietly. From the corner of his eye, Keith sees U6 tilt his head down. The Garrison wolf isn't radiating fear anymore, but the resignation is almost as bad.

 

The realization makes Keith scoff, the sound thick and derisive. "What, with _him?"_

 

The Anisapien meets his scepticism steadily. "Do not mistake my guilt for weakness," he says quietly. "I am a Weapon, first and foremost. I cannot change what happened to you, or what part I played in it, but I can try and make amends. I can try to do better, and _help._ You aren't the only life Lotor has ruined. What about the others? If we catch him, we can save them. Maybe not all of them, but we can save _some._ "

 

"Do you even know how to fight?" Keith shakes his head, gently pulling away from Shiro. The lion gives him his space, but doesn't leave. When his presence started to be calming, Keith isn't sure, but he's got too many other thoughts raging through his head to focus on something so ultimately small.

 

"I learned to fight at the Garrison," U6 says, frowning. "I am a Weapon. It is in my nature."

 

"Good for you." Keith grinds his teeth, his muscles coiling. Shiro's ears twitch toward him, his eyes widening a fraction when he realizes what's about to happen.

 

"Keith, don-"

 

He's already vaulting over the table, leaping toward U6 before the other wolf is ready for it. He's taller and broader than Keith -- definitely looks more wolf than human -- but Keith has the advantage. He knows the rings. He knows how to kill. He knows how to use everything around him as well as himself to get his enemy exactly where he wants them.

 

He already knows how this is going to end.

 

U6 yelps when Keith slams into him, the surprise leaving him vulnerable. Keith already has claws in his sides, ripping through the thin material of his uniform shirt to get to the soft skin. The other wolf snarls and snaps sharp teeth at him, trying to shove Keith back, but he's too quick. He catches U6 by both wrists and twists, turning and using the bigger Anisapien's own weight to knock him off balance and throw him over Keith's narrow shoulder.

 

The wolf hits the ground hard, gasping for breath; the impact knocked the wind out of him. Keith attacks before he can recover, straddling the Anisapien's chest and squeezing with his thighs and knees to keep him winded. His claws dig into the thick ruff of fur at U6's throat, finding his jugular vein and applying enough pressure that the wolf knows he's serious. If he tries to lash out, or keep fighting, Keith will rip his throat out.

 

The whole thing takes less than two minutes.

 

"It doesn't matter what you are," Keith growls. "Or where you learned to fight. If it wasn't in a ring, or a pit, it's useless. There is no _fair fighting_ in that world. There is no holding back. You don't get to yield and walk away. If you lose, you _die._ Being a Weapon won't save you. Being a Fighter won't save you. Being _ruthless_ saves you. Being _cold_ keeps you alive. Being willing to tear your enemy apart no matter what it does to you later is how you stay alive. Knowing _you_ did that, _you_ killed them. And when the next fight comes around, you have to do it again. And again. I've seen beasts like you, arrogant because they assume their purpose will be enough to keep them alive. They died bloody. I killed some of them myself."

 

Leaning closer, Keith bares his teeth next to one of U6's wide eyes, his harsh breaths making the wolf's ear twitch. "You wouldn't last a minute in the ring," he hisses. "You're too soft. They like that more, sometimes. They like the screams."

 

"That's enough." Shiro's hands are firm, gripping Keith just shy of too tight. He lets go of U6 without a fight, lets Shiro pull him up and move him until the lion is standing between them with his burning eyes staring Griffin down.

 

Everyone is silent, still in shock from what just happened.

 

"Keith is right," the lion rumbles. "If you want to bait Lotor, you're going to have to do it in a different way. No amount of forethought and pre-planning will prepare any of your Anisapiens for the ring; it doesn't matter how good of a fighter they are, or how quickly your men react. There's just no preparing for the kind of brutality they will face. This isn't drills and sparring. This isn't _war._ This is something entirely different, and as Keith has already shown, it's not something military training can prepare for."

 

"He did attack without warning," Captain Griffin points out, but he looks contemplative.

 

"From your perspective, perhaps," Allura says quietly. She's come to kneel beside U6, checking his injuries and looking at Keith with pleased surprise when she realizes how shallow they are. He only just dug deep enough to draw blood. "But Shiro knew immediately what was about to happen, and I'm sure you did too." She looks back down at the Garrison wolf, petting his head until his ears flick back up.

 

"I wasn't expecting him to be so fast," U6 admits, sitting up slowly with her help. "You have a point though," he adds, meeting Keith's eyes despite Shiro's bulk being in the way. "If I knew it was coming, and you still got me down that easily, another Anisapien can do the same. And they won't stop, not like you did."

 

"So we need a different plan," Griffin sighs.

 

"Or a different piece of bait," Keith mutters, but the words taste harsh, and they burn his throat. He leans against Shiro, pressing his cheek between the lion's shoulder blades and breathing in his scent. It helps, and Shiro's pleased purr vibrates through his chest, knocking everything loose in ways Keith isn't prepared to deal with.

 

"I would prefer a different plan," Allura suggests firmly. "One that keeps all of our people far away from the ring, if we can help it."

 

"What about luring them out," Keith says, stepping away from Shiro to check on his batter -- not that he's expecting to get to finish the cake any time soon. "The entire desert is a hell of a lot easier than a confined ring. Easier to hide, easier to get away; we know it better than they do, too. We could, theoretically, herd them right where we want them."

 

"If Lotor knows you're here, would he try to get you back?" Griffin rubs his chin thoughtfully. Keith grunts.

 

"I was a good fighter, and he doesn't like losing his things. It's possible he'd try to catch me. Or he'll have the fighters he brought along try to kill me. Either way, it gets you what you want."

 

"But that puts you, like, all the way in the danger zone!" Hunk protests loudly. A little too loudly for the confined space of the kitchen; it's bigger than the kitchen at the apartment, but not quite big enough for that. Keith stares as the man abandons his dough. He startles when Hunk drags him into a hug, but doesn't try to wriggle free. The hug is a little too tight, and the overwhelming scent of Hunk's _fearcareconcern_ makes him dizzy.

 

"What other choice do we have?" he mutters, slowly tucking his face against the human's shoulder. Hunk gentles his hold, but doesn't let go yet. "He has to be stopped."

 

"They all do," Griffin agrees. He puts a hand on Hunk's other shoulder and carefully pulls him away from Keith. Hunk looks at the soldier, his eyes wet and his emotions pulsing wildly.

 

"I don't want them hurt, James," he rasps, crossing his arms and trying his best to glare. It just seems to amuse the Captain, his severe expression thawing to something that, to Keith, looks and smells a lot like _fondness._

 

"We'll do everything in our power to keep them safe," the man promises. He knuckles away some of the tears that have leaked from the corner of Hunk's eye, the action so gentle and careful that Keith's ears perk. "The higher-ups want these rings shut down as badly as the rest of us do. It's just a matter of time and place. If we find any rings in Drumville, that is. Something tells me we will. In a city that size, there's bound to be a lot of Anisapien fighters we'll need to find places for once their Owners are taken into custody. That will be another thing we'll have to plan for."

 

"Perhaps my father and I can assist with that," Allura says, her voice rich with warm excitement. "We have a facility; it's where we took Shiro to rehabilitate him. We've done it with a few other Anisapiens as well since then, but it's more than big enough to hold hundreds, so long as we have a large enough staff. I know not all of your people advocate for the freedom of Anisapiens, but it's an option."

 

"They don't have to agree to it, then," Griffin says firmly. "I'm sure we can find help, if you're willing to do this. The freedom-preachers are getting louder than they used to be; I'm sure we can find help and support if we reach out to them."

 

"So what you're saying is that we have a plan?" Keith crosses his arms, ignoring the way his stomach cramps and twists at the thought of coming face to face with Lotor.

 

They have to do this. It's the only way.

 

"We have an _idea,"_ the soldier corrects; he seems to realize that he's still touching Hunk's face and steps away, carefully controlling his expression. Keith narrows his eyes thoughtfully.

"I'll need to speak with my fellow officers and the higher-ups. The Garrison will have to reach out to Drumville's police force to offer our assistance with any possible rings. Once we have everything iron-clad, then we can move forward."

 

"And in the meantime?" Keith grits his teeth. He hates waiting, especially when he knows that the enemy is so close. It feels like they're leaving themselves open and vulnerable for attack.

 

"In the meantime, we go on as normal." Griffin meets his baleful stare, arching an eyebrow when he growls. "I'm not saying it's going to take weeks, Keith. But if we go in without thought, we run the risk of losing a hell of a lot more than if we strategize. Trust me. Please?"

 

 _I don't even know you._ Clenching his jaw, he looks away until Shiro's fingers slip under his chin and turn his head back. He glares at the lion, nostrils flaring, and Shiro cups the back of his neck; squeezes firmly but gently and presses his nose against the wolf's temple.

 

"Trust me," he murmurs, taking Griffin's words and making them into something _else._ Keith's breath hitches, a growl dying in his throat. "Keith, trust me. Please? Nothing is going to happen to you."

 

The words are quiet, meant just for them. It's intimacy in a way that is still so foreign to him, but Shiro lets it bleed into everything he does where Keith is concerned. There's a touch of possession, but it's shadowed by so much _gentleness_ that Keith constantly feels caught of guard, but not threatened.

 

"Alright," he mutters, nosing at Shiro's cheek. He craves the contact and shies away from it at the same time, looking toward his mixer because it's _safe._ Shiro purrs and licks at his hair, ignoring the others in a way Keith will never be able to.

 

"Thank you, Keith."

 

He can't for the life of him figure out why it sounds so much different coming from Shiro than it does coming from anyone else.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith learns a few things, and then learns even more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT? TWO IN A DAY?
> 
> Apparently these fine creatures have a need to be heard, whut.
> 
> Don't mind me, I'll just be over in my corner FREAKING OUT OKAY.

"You are different than you were before."

 

Keith looks at U6, frowning. He's not particularly happy about the two of them being out alone together, but he couldn't really say no when Hunk looked at him with such hopeful, pleading eyes.

 

It's just like when they all wanted him to get along with Shiro, but it's not at the same time. He looks at the Garrison wolf and feels -- not _contempt,_ exactly, but there's nothing really nice about it either.

 

"How would you know?" he grunts, climbing over a sand dune and watching U6 slide and struggle to do the same. He's clearly not a desert wolf, but to be fair, Keith has had more time out here to get used to the terrain.

 

 _See, Hunk? I can be nice,_ he thinks grumpily.

 

"You were much more closed off, then," U6 says quietly, sliding down the other side of the dune and waiting for Keith to lead the way again. At least he's not complaining about the sand. "If we had fought that night, I don't think you would have held yourself back."

 

Keith doesn't respond, because he's pretty sure it's true. It's only been, what, two weeks at the most? Maybe? He's not sure how things can change so radically in such a short time, but he can't argue that he wouldn't have ripped the wolf's throat out that night if he'd had the chance.

 

"Things don't change that fast," is what he says instead, loping toward the canyon and listening to U6's puffs of breath when he tries to keep up. He's not in bad shape, but he's never had the need to learn silence, Keith figures. Not if just the sight of him is enough to make an opponent nervous.

 

Thankfully, the last leg of the trip leaves little room for talking. As soon as they reach the edge of the canyon, he slows to a stop. It's tempting to swing himself over the ledge and climb down, just to see if this Garrison Anisapien has what it takes to keep up without falling, but in the end he sits down instead.

 

After a moment of hesitation, U6 sits as well, keeping several feet between them. "Sometimes," he says, his breaths evening out and his ears forward with interest as he takes in the scenery, "things can change faster than we ever expect them to."

 

Keith snorts quietly. "What? Like me trying to rip your friend's face off one week, and being alone with you in the desert the next?"

 

U6 flinches slightly at the reminder, but he still nods. "Yes," he replies simply. "It's like… it's like the butterfly effect. One small thing can have a monumental effect somewhere else. One tiny, random act can completely change the way we view something."

 

Rather than replying, Keith looks the Anisapien up and down. In terms of appearance, he's definitely more wolf than human. He's covered in short, thick gray fur, with a blunt muzzle and golden eyes. His hands are like Shiro's lion arm -- fingers long and bent a little strangely, and thickly padded with blunt, dark claws. He acts more like a human though; he sounds like he spends most of his time reading or researching something.

 

Keith may look mostly human, but he's definitely a lot more wild than the other wolf. Talking isn't his preference; he growls and chuffs more than he actually speaks, unless he really has something to say. When he does talk, he can speak as well as most humans, but it's their tones and their scents he responds to. Their body language tells him more truths than their words.

 

"How'd you end up at the Garrison, anyway?"

 

U6 looks at him, surprised and confused. "They bought me from the breeding center," he says. "When my purpose manifested as Weapon, there wasn't really anywhere else for me to go. I wasn't fit for home chores, and most people are dissuaded from buying exotics anyway."

 

"What center did you come from?" He's not really curious, and he's pretty sure U6 knows that, but the silence between them isn't going to be comfortable. Not like it is with Shiro.

 

"Drumville. Both Z2 and I came from there. We weren't littermates, but we grew up together." He doesn't smile, but something softens in his eyes, something that reminds Keith of the way Shiro looks at him. He shifts uncomfortably, his ears drooping back.

 

"So… you're close. That why you got paired on the same team?"

 

U6 chuckles. "That was just a happy accident. We work well together, though. Captain Griffin is strict, but he's not heartless." The wolf glances toward him, a curious light in his eyes. "May I ask you something?"

 

Frowning, he hunches his shoulders defensively; Hunk's gentle plea makes him sigh and lean back to rest his weight on his palms.

 

"Sure. Go for it."

 

"How did you come to be called Keith?"

 

"Ah." Brushing the sand off his tail, he runs his claws through the mottled fur to try and work out a few tangles. "Hunk didn't want to call me by just a number, so he came up with Keith. I like it well enough, so I let it go." He glances up at the wolf. "You've never wanted to be called anything other than U6?"

 

"It's a fine nickname, as far as I'm concerned." U6 shrugs, like it doesn't matter to him, but Keith can see that same curiosity burning in his eyes. It's just a small flicker, but with time, Keith knows that it will grow.

 

"Why did you say Hunk adopted you, if you ran away?"

 

Gritting his teeth, Keith curses Allura. "I'm guessing she'd already told you both, since no one reacted to it."

 

"First Lieutenant Smythe had already suspected," U6 admits. "When he asked miss Tean, she confirmed that you'd gotten free and run. No one but us knows. I didn't even tell Z2." Something about the way he says it, earnest and _intense_ while he stares at Keith, makes him relax enough to nod.

 

"You know what happens to Anisapiens who run away," he grunts after a moment of crackling silence. It's not -- he can't help but compare it to the way he interacts with Shiro. It's not the _same,_ and that twists something in Keith's stomach that he isn't sure how to explain even to himself. "They get sent right back."

 

"In most cases," U6 agrees. "But if there's signs of abuse, centers and shelters are expected _by law_ to report it and have an investigation done. They would have come to his house."

 

"I've never seen Lotor's house." Keith knocks his foot hard against the canyon wall just to watch bits of clay and sand tumble down. "He kept a separate facility. None of us ever saw his house."

 

U6 smells surprised for a moment before sighing. "That would have been enough for most of them," he says, sounding frustrated. That gets Keith's attention, and he looks at the other wolf.

 

"They don't all do that?"

 

The Anisapien shakes his head. "Some remodel their basements, if they're close enough to fights. Captain Griffin wasn't lying when he said a lot of the Handlers in the business get arrogant the longer they're in it. That's how most of them get caught nowadays. That's how they found Shiro."

 

Keith tenses, his ears snapping forward. "You know how they found Shiro?" he whispers.

 

U6 blinks at him, caught off guard by the sudden change in his attitude. "He hasn't told you?"

 

He shrugs defensively. "He's told me a little bit, but not about when they first got him. Not really. He said he kept trying to kill Allura."

 

"He kept trying to kill _everyone,"_ U6 says quietly. He has Keith's full attention now, and he must realize that. "It wasn't safe to keep him at the Garrison without sedating him heavily. Whenever he was even remotely cognizant, he was completely feral. From my understanding, he'd been in the pit for so long that he forgot any other way. He slept there, was fed there, and fought there. If he was injured and needed treatment, it happened there too. They'd sedate him, patch him up, and then Zarkon would demand that he be given a few days to heal before throwing another opponent in."

 

"Zarkon?" That name sounds familiar, but it's not one Keith has heard in a while. He frowns, thinking hard, and hisses when the memory tears at him like phantom claws; snaps his teeth and snarls through it, his claws dragging gouges through the sand.

 

"Keith?" U6 sounds alarmed, his hands raised like he wants to offer comfort. Keith twists away from the other wolf, going up into a crouch and shaking his head furiously.

 

"I remember that pit," he grits out. "I fought a leopard Anisapien there; a Beta Fighter. She almost killed me. I hadn't been fighting long at that point, and she knew it. She was…"

 

_Ruthless. Cruel. Calculating. Deadly._

 

Keith presses a palm against his side, feeling the knotted scar tissue even through his shirt and jacket.

 

"She might have been the champion before Shiro." U6 is watching him with a look on his face that Keith isn't sure how to read. "Zarkon didn't keep many Anisapiens, but they were all Fighters, and from my understanding, they rarely lost. Shiro was undefeated for a while before Zarkon got sloppy and got caught."

 

Part of him feels sick and guilty, knowing that he's hearing all of this from U6 and not Shiro. But he remembers the look in the lion's eyes; the overwhelming guilt and self-hatred over everything he'd done. The fact that Shiro still wears long sleeves and gloves, just so he doesn't have to look at his bare arms and remember the acts he was forced to commit to survive. How he tells Keith in short, choppy bursts, like he can't bear to say anything more because he's afraid.

 

Afraid of what Keith will think of him. Like Keith has any room, or _right,_ to judge him. As if he'll think it's unforgivable and shove the lion out of his life.

 

He whines miserably at the thought.

 

As if he _could,_ at this point.

 

"You are very strange mates," U6 says slowly. "But… I can see it now. You're good for each other."

 

Everything screeches to a halt. Keith stares at the Garrison wolf, stunned.

 

What?

 

It takes him several minutes to remember how to speak.

 

"... What?"

 

The other wolf meets his wide eyes and tilts his head. "You are good for each other," he repeats, like he thinks _that's_ the part that has Keith gaping at him.

 

 _"Mates?"_ he hisses incredulously. "Where the fuck did _that_ come from?"

 

It's U6's turn to look confused and faintly blindsided, like Keith's reaction is not at all what he'd been expecting. "You smell… almost exclusively of each other," the Anisapien replies cautiously, his words slow. "He grooms you constantly. He's always finding ways to be close, and you let him. You still tense when others touch you, but not him. That night-" He stops and swallows thickly, taking a moment before continuing. "I'm not entirely sure what kept him from killing us. You didn't see his face; I did. It was exactly the way any of us would respond to our mate being in danger. When you passed out, he was so careful with you. He picked you up like you were precious to him, and he was making these sounds. I've never heard anything like it."

 

Keith's mind races. Every single look, every touch -- it all tumbles through his head. Shiro's intensity from the moment they met, all the way up to him facing off against Griffin in Heaven's kitchen. The way he's touched Keith from the beginning, always gentle but firm; always waiting for Keith to accept, to nuzzle back, to relax into it.

 

"What the fuck," he spits. U6's eyes are wide, his mouth open slightly.

 

"You… didn't know?" he whispers, his expression morphing to a frown.

 

Keith scrambles to his feet, shaking with emotions he doesn't know how to name. It's like panic, clawing at the inside of his chest, but he doesn't feel like he's about to have a panic attack. He doesn't know what it is, but it's driving him to do one thing.

 

"I have to go," Keith bites out, and he flees before U6 can stop him.

 

\--

 

Shiro answers the door before Keith breaks it down, looking annoyed at the loud pounding before he realizes who's standing on Allura's welcome mat. His expression turns pleased, and then concerned, before morphing to something dark that makes the wolf shiver.

 

"Keith? What's wrong? What happened?"

 

He shoves past the lion into the apartment, recognizing from the slightly stale scent that Allura left a few hours ago. That means there's no one to interrupt when he whirls to face the Alpha Fighter.

 

"What are you doing?" he growls, tense and tight-chested. He feels like he can't breathe, and suddenly Shiro is in his space. He's wearing a tank top and sweatpants, his gloves gone, and Keith trembles when those broad hands touch him.

 

"Keith, what happened?" Shiro is so close, his scent overwhelming everything -- spice and musk and something feral, something that makes the wildness in Keith keen and growl. His nails scratch gently down his back; one hand raises to tangle in his short hair, dragging over his scalp.

 

"What the fuck are you doing to me?" he whispers, glaring up at Shiro. There's too many things burning beneath his skin, more than he knows how to name.

 

Shiro rumbles, nosing at his temple. "I don't understand. What do you mean? What do you think I'm doing?"

 

"U6 called us _mates,"_ Keith snaps. Shiro stills, his scent dipping at the word. His rumble is powerful enough that Keith swears the floor vibrates beneath his feet.

 

"Oh, Keith." Shiro licks at his forehead, tongue dragging up into his hair. When he noses at the sensitive base of the wolf's ear, he shakes and growls, confusion warring with the _something else_ that's been twisting through him since the first time Shiro rubbed their cheeks together.

 

"Don't _oh, Keith_ me," he snaps, but there's no heat in his voice. He's confused and _afraid,_ because he's never let anyone this close to him, and Shiro slips past his defenses so easily now. Keith knows that's because he lets him -- he could keep the lion away if he really needed to.

 

When did _want_ and _need_ become so easily switched? How did Keith never even realize when he stopped _wanting_ to keep Shiro as far away as the others?

 

He knows the answer to that. He's just reeling, grasping desperately at anything he can anchor himself to that can help make sense of what's happening, and he's realizing that every direction he turns, _Shiro_ is there.

 

"What the fuck is this?" he barks, digging his claws into the lion's shirt without ever touching his skin.

 

"I told you, Keith," Shiro rumbles against the side of his face, claws brushing gently against the opposite cheek. "This is whatever you want it to be."

 

"Bullshit," Keith growls, turning to glare at Shiro. They're so close, their noses bumping when they move; breathing in each other. Keith realizes he's panting, struggling to stay afloat in his own churning mind. Shiro anchors him with a hand at his hip -- his lion hand, his fingers so long Keith can almost feel them at the base of his tail.

 

"What is this?" he rumbles. Shiro's eyes are so dark, almost black except for shimmering flecks of gold that flicker like stars.

 

"Whatever you need it to be," Shiro purrs, squeezing his hip. Keith's skin shudders, feeling the controlled strength in that grip. He knows what it can do to him -- what it _has_ done to others -- but he's not afraid.

 

"What about you?" Keith whispers, and more gold flares across Shiro's eyes. They hit Keith like lightning bolts, the Fighter's rumble as deep as thunder. His other hand is hot against Keith's nape, and he doesn't even remember when it got there.

 

He's caught in Shiro's hold. Snared by his scent. Frozen in place by his burning eyes. Keith should be fighting, should have already gotten free.

 

He twists his hands further into the back of the lion's shirt and waits.

 

"Do you trust me, Keith?" Shiro asks, his voice so low that the words are almost inaudible, lost in the rumble rolling continuously through his chest.

 

"You know I do," Keith bites out, because it's the one thing that makes sense out of everything else. Keith trusts Shiro, or they wouldn't be here right now.

 

Keith trusts Shiro, and U6 thinks they're mates.

 

Keith trusts Shiro, and it's terrifying, but it's _true._

 

Shiro presses, and Keith moves.

 

The Fighter's lips are dry, his fangs sharp. His tongue is wet and hot, licking across Keith's mouth until he opens. He nips, growling, and Shiro presses harder, his rumble so fucking _pleased_ that the wolf shivers. He nips back, the pain sharp and sudden but _good._ Keith has never known pain to be good in his life, but Shiro is curling his tongue against one of Keith's canines, licking at the tip, and he has to jerk back. He's growling, meeting Shiro's burning stare, and this time Keith is the one to lean forward and lick. The lion lets him, content to flick his tongue against Keith's while he explores. Each brush is a new sizzle of electricity, the taste of ozone sharp in his throat with every swallow.

 

He bites Shiro's chin and the Fighter _growls,_ pulling his hips closer. The hand in his hair tugs, arching his neck, and he _knows_ that Shiro recognizes the blatant trust. He's baring his throat to another predator, offering the tender barrier laid over his jugular vein -- there is no bigger act of trust for creatures like them.

 

"Fuck, Keith," Shiro growls, licking from the base of his throat up to his chin. Keith trembles and whines, oversensitive and lost. No one has ever touched him like this. No one has ever touched him at all -- unless it was to try and kill him -- until a few months ago. Even then, none of those people who have slowly become _pack_ would ever be allowed to touch him like this.

 

"You have no idea," the Fighter breathes harshly against the underside of his jaw. "No _idea."_ He bites, sharp pain bleeding into something that makes Keith's toes dig into the carpet. He yanks at Shiro's shirt; finally gets a hand free and tugs on the lion's hair to bite at his throat. He's not gentle, but the noise Shiro makes is far from displeased.

 

"About what?" he mutters, licking at the bite and knowing, with a surge of satisfaction, that it's going to bruise.

 

Fuck, he likes the thought of leaving a mark on the other Anisapien.

 

Shiro pushes him against the wall, his claws scraping the base of Keith's tail through his pants. He flinches, shudders, _keens,_ and Shiro watches it all with black, hungry eyes.

 

"You have no idea what you do to me," he rumbles, pressing down harder and watching Keith shake. That spot has always been more sensitive, just like the base of his ears. It's different though, because Shiro has already touched those. This is _new,_ it's more _intense,_ and his words die on a whine as he pushes back against Shiro's fingers.

 

"Then tell me," he huffs, pressing their chests together and biting at a bare shoulder. Shiro likes that -- likes it enough to return the favor. His bite is sharp, and hard enough that Keith jolts, but it's just as good as the rest of it when Shiro rubs the base of his tail and Keith arches so hard his spine cracks.

 

"Oh, pup," Shiro purrs, and it should piss Keith off but it just makes him _burn._ "There aren't enough hours in the day for what I want to do to you. There aren't words to describe what you do to me." He cups Keith's cheek and licks across his mouth, gentle and calming while wicked claws drag carefully up his back.

 

"Why?" Keith rasps, fingers scratching at Shiro's dark, soft ears. The lion presses into the touches, his purr low and satisfied, though his eyes never leave Keith's.

 

"You're so _free,"_ he says softly. "So wild. You belong only to yourself. You are strong, and fierce, and _brave._ When you care for someone, there is no halfway for you. It's all, or nothing." He licks Keith's cheek, and the corner of his eye; bites one of the wolf's ears, and Keith can feel the smug curve of the Fighter's grin when he shudders and whines.

 

"You've been reading too many of Allura's romance books," he mutters, and Shiro _laughs._ It's a quiet, rumbling chuckle, but it warms something in the wolf's chest. When Shiro pulls back, he spreads his large hands across Keith's chest as if he can feel it, staring at how easily he spans the narrow width with room to curl the tips of his fingers around the sides.

 

"Some of them have decent plots," he defends cheerfully. His thumbs rub against Keith's collarbones. "I have to admit, though, some of them are just downright _filthy."_

 

He sounds so gleeful about it that Keith pins his ears back and growls in warning. "Don't you fucking dare."

 

"Don't what, Keith?" Shiro is teasing him, his eyes still dark and hot. When a finger rubs over Keith's nipple, he tries not to twitch, but he knows the lion sees it. "What do you think I could possibly do with anything I've read in those dirty little novels?" He leans closer, so much larger and broader than Keith. He should feel trapped -- he would have, months ago. But Shiro is buried so deep beneath his skin now that some days Keith isn't sure whose air he's breathing.

 

"I don't want to know," he huffs, pushing the lion away. Shiro goes easily, his cheeks a little flushed and his hair sticking up in tufts from Keith's hands. He looks rumpled and so soft, so affectionate and warm, that it's almost enough to give the wolf whiplash -- even if something in his chest pulses sweetly at the look he's being given now. It's such a drastic difference, but it's so _comfortable._ He shakes his head and chuffs.

 

"This is fucking insane," he mutters. Shiro chirps curiously, his head tilted and his ears forward.

 

"Do you trust me, Keith?" he asks softly.

 

"Yes," the wolf breathes, because it's true, even if it's terrifying. "I do."

 

Shiro cups his cheek and nuzzles his temple. "Then let this be whatever you need it to be. It doesn't have to be insane, or frightening. It just _is._ And it's ours; whatever we want to make of it. You know I will wait for you. I've done it all this time. It's no issue for me to keep doing it."

 

"Was U6 right?" Keith whispers. "Are we mates, and I didn't fucking realize it?"

 

"We are whatever you want us to be," Shiro rumbles. "That hasn't changed."

 

"What about… This?" He gestures vaguely, trying to encompass everything that just happened without struggling to find the words. Shiro huffs, amused, and licks the side of his hand. It's… strange, but not entirely unpleasant.

 

"You sound like a broken record," the lion says with a short, happy laugh. Keith wants to be offended, but he can't find the ire in himself right now.

 

"Shiro," he growls. He lets the Fighter cup his cheek and lick over his mouth, and then the tip of his nose.

 

"Whatever you decide, Keith," he murmurs. He smells like smoke and moss and wild things, like elation and satisfaction; his heartbeat never stutters.

 

"Alright," Keith says, nodding. He licks Shiro, uncertain and curious, and feels pleasure curl in his chest when the lion purrs.

 

The knock on the door catches them both off guard; they've been so distracted that they never heard anyone approaching. Shiro squeezes his nape gently and goes to open the door for Lance.

 

They both tense at the sharp scent of fear rolling off of him. Keith pushes away from the wall and goes to stand beside Shiro, rumbling soothingly to try and calm the frightened man.

 

"Lance?" he prompts. "What's going on?"

 

Lance's pupils are so wide there's barely any iris left. He naturally tan skin looks ashy.

 

"Lance?" Shiro asks when he doesn't say anything. The human jerks, startled, and licks his lips, looking at them both.

 

"You gotta come to Heaven," he rasps.

 

Keith tenses, his stomach plummeting. "What happened?" His words are a low growl.

 

Lance is shaking, smelling like fear and something that makes Keith's chest tight.

 

"You gotta come to Heaven," he says again, reaching out to grab their wrists and tug desperately.

 

"We've got a huge problem."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big showdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH HEY WHAT'S THIS????
> 
> Y'all I am so, so sorry this took so long. Between healing and my life going sideways in a few other ways, my muse fizzled for a bit. ;~; BUT I'M BACK NOW, AND HERE WE ARE.
> 
> Okay so. I *might* write an epilogue piece, depending on if people are interested in reading a bit of a time-skip. If you are, just give me a bit shout-out yay in the comments. If not, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR JOINING ME ON THIS JOURNEY.
> 
> Thank you also to every single one of you who left well-wishes when I got hurt! Thank you so super duper much for being so understanding. It meant a lot to me.
> 
> OKAY I'LL HUSH NOW HAVE FUN!

Keith can smell the blood before they even reach the doors -- thick, metallic,  _ fresh. _ The scent isn't strong enough to suggest a fatal injury, but it's enough to get him moving quicker. Shiro is growling behind him, the sound low and savage; the lion is practically plastered to his back when he shoves the front door open. The little bell over the door tingles merrily, as if it doesn't have a care in the world. As if there isn't a familiar Anisapien lying crumpled in the center of the dining room with blood leaking from his torn ear.

 

"U6?" Keith creeps toward the Garrison wolf, his tail bristling and his ears pinned against his hair. He can see Hunk and Pidge through the pick-up window, can smell their fear and worry as they stare out at him silently. There's a small splatter of blood across Pidge's cheek, but she doesn't seem to realize it.

 

"Ah, there you are. I was beginning to wonder what was taking so long."

 

For a moment, Keith forgets how to breathe. Every muscle locks up so quickly that Shiro almost sends them both to the floor; he must not have realized that Keith had stopped. The Fighter pulls away, snarling and snapping his teeth at the man sitting cross-legged at a table near the kitchen door, his chin propped on a fist. He looks like a king reclining on his throne, his lips twisted into an amused smirk as his subjects fumble before him.

 

Keith swallows thickly. "Lotor."

 

"Hello, puppy," Lotor practically purrs. His pale hair is pulled back in its usual braid, a few stray bangs falling over his cold eyes. He looks exactly the same, and Keith suddenly feels no different than the feral creature he was before Hunk gave him a home. "Is this where you've been hiding all this time? Naughty boy. Look at what I've had to do just to get you to come say hello. How rude."

 

"You son of a-" Keith snarls, shaking his head. No, he isn't that beast, not anymore. Not fully. Kneeling beside U6, he turns the wolf carefully to check the full extent of the damage. The bites and claw marks are distinct, but he won't die from his injuries. He's unconscious, thankfully; for one terrifying moment, Keith genuinely thought he was dead.

 

He does know one thing for certain though:

 

This is his fault.

 

"What do you want?" he growls, glaring at the man watching his every move with feigned disinterest. Lotor knows how to play games -- brilliant, twisted games -- and no one plays them as well as he does. No one knows the rules like he does, but Keith knows there's always at least one or two plot twists that help keep things in Lotor's favor. Everyone is just a game piece to him. Puppets waiting to be moved exactly where he wants them. And once they're damaged or have outlived their usefulness, they're removed from the board.

 

"I want my property back," Lotor replies, his smile turning crooked. He's as handsome as any runway model, and as evil as a devil. Right now, he's amused, but if they're not careful, that can change, and it won't end well for any of them. "I want compensation for my pain and suffering. I have put a lot of effort into finding you, K31Z8265. Where is my reimbursement?"

 

"His name is  _ Keith-" _ Hunk's angry words are cut off by his own pained grunt, and Keith realizes that his friends are in the kitchen because someone is  _ keeping them there. _ Someone he hadn't noticed because he can't see them, and U6 was closer. Easier to worry about.

 

_ Fuck. _

 

"If you hurt them, I'll fucking kill you," he bites out, glaring at Lotor with every ounce of rage and contempt he can muster. He takes a step closer to the man -- because he's just a man, a  _ coward, _ a monster that keeps creatures in cages unless he's forcing them to kill each other -- and bares his teeth in challenge and warning. These people are his  _ friends, _ his  _ pack. _ He'll do whatever it takes to keep them safe.

 

Lotor's smile twists just a little more, one slender eyebrow arching. "Will you, now?" he muses, his voice light and playful. "I would dearly love to see you try, puppy."

 

Someone slams into Keith's side before he can lunge, silent and fast enough to barely flicker in his periphery before she strikes. He snarls, dragging her down with him and feeling the pain of claws shredding through his shirt. She's taller than him, but lean and strong, her muscles just as compact as his; they're both creatures bred for speed. They know how to use their size to their advantage in a fight.

 

His claws dig into her sides deep enough to make her yowl and hiss. Keith uses that hold to keep her back; to get his knees between them, yank his fingers free, and kick her across the room in the span of seconds. She hits the wall hard and bounces right back up, hissing and baring thick fangs.

 

"My, isn't this  _ exciting." _ Lotor sits up enough to clap slowly, looking pleased as Keith and the lioness Anisapien circle one another. "You escaped before you ever got to meet A57X9093. To borrow the charming idea of  _ nicknaming _ ones pets, I call her Acxa. Acxa, this is  _ Keith." _

 

"Pleasure." Acxa grins, licking a sharp canine. Her fur is almost the same shade as Shiro's, though like Keith, she looks more human than animal. She even has human ears, though he can see her long, thin tail lashing behind her. Where Shiro is built to intimidate, she is clearly meant to underwhelm her opponents just like Keith. No doubt Lotor trained her to beguile, and show no mercy once her prey lets their guard down.

 

Just like he did with Keith.

 

"You think he gives a shit about you?" Keith sneers, spotting Shiro from the corner of his eye. The Alpha Fighter is guarding Lance, his dark eyes flinty and furious. Shiro's rage is thick on Keith's tongue, but not as potent as Acxa's musk in his nose. She smirks, aware that he's checking on his friends; content to toy with her food until it bores her, or her Owner commands her to stop playing.

 

"I don't care whether he does or not," she purrs, slinking closer. She's dressed for the ring, in tight black leggings and a tank top; clothes she can't trip over or get caught up in. She can move easily, her bare feet nearly soundless on the tile flooring. Keith is in baggy pants and a t-shirt; loose, easy to grab, easy to drag him where she wants him.

 

Easy to kill him in.

 

Gritting his teeth, he lunges before she can, catching the flicker of delight in her amber eyes. She meets him with a hiss, her sharp claws sinking into his shoulder, close to his trapezius muscle. It  _ hurts, _ but it's far from the worst wound he's had. All that matters is that it gets her close enough, delays her just long enough that she can't leap out of reach when Keith strikes.

 

His claws tear through her shirt, finding a home in the sensitive skin just under her arms. She yowls, rearing back, but he's quicker; turning and throwing her across the dining room with barely a thought for the tables and chairs she slams into along the way. Wood breaks and ceramic shatters, the sound almost agonizingly loud in the small space, but he can't let that distract him.

 

With a roar, Keith leaps after her, far more familiar with his surroundings. He's gotten used to playing in Heaven's kitchen, and this room; learning how to vault and tumble without knocking into anything. It's far, far different from the open rings Lotor's fighters know, and he can tell that nothing's changed there. Acxa looks stunned, bleeding freely from the gouges along her sides. Her blood drips to the floor and runs down her chin, no doubt from where she bit through her lip when she went crashing through two tables before being stopped by a third.

 

"You haven't lost your touch, I see," Lotor says approvingly. Keith ignores him, advancing on the lioness Fighter. She's only a Beta, he can smell that now, his nostrils flaring to breathe in the scent of her pain and blood. He recognizes distantly that he's snarling, deep and continuous the way he used to  _ before; _ locked onto his prey with a different kind of intensity than Acxa's eager bloodlust. She lives to toy with her victims, to blood them again and again until they're too weak to move and she gets bored. Keith knows that because he's fought Anisapiens like her before. He's killed wolves and tigers, raptors and hounds, all of them with the same light in their eyes.

 

Keith doesn't play with his food; it's never been his style. No, once he has them down, he  _ kills. _ He's brutal, savage, feral,  _ merciless. _ It's how he learned to survive.

 

It's who he is, and he knows he can't run from it, no matter how hard he tries. It will always be a part of him.

 

Acxa snarls, kicking him back and scrambling to her feet. Pain makes her faster, just like him, but it makes her sloppier too. She catches him by the arm, her teeth tearing through his wrist, and Keith howls in pain, but he doesn't stop. He rakes at the front of her throat, splattering blood -- a deep wound, but not quite deep  _ enough. _ It gets her to let go of him, and they go down in a writhing tangle, ripping into clothes and flesh and fur without distinction. Her teeth find his injured shoulder right as his claws dig into the base of her tail. She screams into his skin, bubbles of blood bursting around her lips, but Keith doesn't stop. Adrenaline dulls most of his pain, a barrier between him and the agony he knows his body feels. It helps keep his head clear, his instincts pushing him to destroy the threat to his home.

 

The base of the Fighter's tail breaks with a sickening snap. Keith uses it to drag her away, snarling when her claws drag across his chest. He's going to come out of this with a lot of new scars; just more badges of survival. She's yowling nonstop, pain and rage twisting her face -- she's swiping and biting at whatever pieces of him she can reach, her movements jerky with growing desperation. She knows it's over, he can see it in her eyes, but she's a Fighter. She won't stop, not until she's dead, because her nature won't allow it to be any other way.

 

She must have been good at it, if Lotor brought her along thinking she could finish what he couldn't. Thinking she could tear apart that one stubborn, violent little toy that got away, only to have her torn apart instead.

 

Acxa roars in his face, her claws catching against his ribs one last time and hooking in deep as she frantically fights to stop the inevitable.

 

In comparison, Keith feels almost calm when he wrenches her head back with bloody fingers and rips her throat out with his teeth.

 

\--

 

"Keith."

 

There's blood in the corners of Shiro's mouth, dried and dark now. Keith stares at it, hazily remembering the cougar Weapon that had sprung up out of nowhere once Acxa was dead. She hadn't made it far before Shiro had torn her apart. Keith can smell her blood on his face, mixed with her friend's. She'd died terrified, wholly unprepared for a Fighter like Shiro.

 

"Shiro," he rasps, and the lion purrs; rubs their heads together and licks at his cheek, cleaning away as much of the blood as he can without a proper shower. Keith lets him, numb down to his core despite the pain throbbing from his various injuries. He's clinging to the bright orange shock blanket Allura wrapped around his shoulders, watching the controlled chaos unfolding before them.

 

Captain Griffin had shot the Anisapiens that burst from the kitchen after Shiro killed the Weapon. Two of them, a wolf and a leopard; he'd put a bullet through each of their skulls before anyone had realized that he'd arrived with reinforcements; apparently Hunk had managed to send out a distress signal without anyone catching him.

 

Allura had been the one to pull Z2 off of Lotor before the wolf could kill him. She'd guided him to U6, and the two of them haven't been separated since medics patched the injured wolf up. They're curled into each other, whining and licking like distressed cubs -- or mates.

 

"Huh," Keith grunts, looking away from them, toward Shiro. The lion hasn't left his side; has made no effort to hide the fact that he's guarding Keith, his black ears flat against his hair and his dark eyes blazing gold.

 

"Keith!" Hunk is bawling, his face a mess of tears and snot, but Keith doesn't protest when the man drags him into a rib-crushing hug despite how much it makes his abused body scream in protest.

 

"Hunk, you're hurting him," Shiro says, clearly trying to be gentle even though he's growling low in his throat. Hunk blubbers something not even enhanced hearing can help decipher, but lets him go. Keith sighs out a whine, eyes flicking to where Lotor had been like he'll still see him sitting there smirking, as if all of this is just part of his plan.

 

Lotor isn't there though. He's on his way to the Garrison, probably still bleeding from the vicious punch Allura had landed before she slammed him down and cuffed him.

 

"It can't be this easy." He looks at Shiro, then at Hunk, who is hovering with outstretched hands like he's desperate to hug Keith again but terrified of making things worse. "That was way too easy," he insists.

 

"You almost  _ died," _ Hunk replies, horrified by the thought or Keith's suspicion -- or possibly both, knowing him. "How was that  _ too easy? _ Tell me, please, I'd love to know. I'm all ears, buddy."

 

"Hunk is right, Keith." Shiro's lion hand squeezes his nape, coaxing him closer until his head is tucked beneath the Alpha Fighter's jaw. Somehow, breathing in his scent helps relax Keith, leeching away the tension that's kept him strung as taut as a bowstring ever since he saw Lotor waiting for them.

 

When Shiro continues, the rumble of his voice sinks into Keith's chest. "Lotor wasn't expecting reinforcements -- or, at least, he wasn't expecting them to make it in time. To have brought four Anisapiens like that, all of them ring- or pit-winners… He was expecting things to turn out a lot differently, whether or not you killed the Beta Fighter."

 

"He was expecting you to have gotten complacent," Captain Griffin adds, approaching them with an unreadable look on his face when he tilts his head toward Keith. "I suppose he assumed that being tamed by the local baker curbed your bloodlust and rusted your skills. That long away from the ring, against a Fighter fresh from a victory? How could it go any way but in his favor? And even if you had beaten her, he brought others to finish the job."

 

The Captain shakes his head, huffing out a quiet, tired laugh. "Sooner or later, they all get cocky, and then they get caught."

 

Keith stares at him, his mind reeling. "You knew the whole time" he hisses quietly.

 

Griffin grins at him, almost boyishly sheepish. "It wasn't that hard to figure out," he says. "No one with a temperament like yours comes from a shelter; you'd be too dangerous to adopt out. And being an exotic on top of that?" He snorts. "There was no way."

 

"You played along for  _ months," _ Hunk squawks, smacking the Captain's arm. He looks affronted. "You sneaky son of a-"

 

Griffin catches Hunk's hand before he can hit him again, tangling their fingers and squeezing.  _ That _ shuts the baker up; he gapes at the Captain, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

 

"You were happy," Griffin says simply, smiling at Hunk. "At your wits' end, a few times, but happy. Why would I take that away from you? Besides, you were good for him too."

 

"Keith," Shiro rumbles, bracing him just before his legs threaten to give out. "Let me take you home and clean you up," the lion coaxes, scratching at the base of his skull until Keith is practically boneless against him. He tucks his nose against Shiro's neck, whining quietly. Now that the adrenaline is gone, he realizes just how much everything hurts, and how  _ tired _ he is.

 

"Go," Captain Griffin says, shooing them away with his free hand. "We know where to find you when we need your statements. Go get cleaned up.  _ Rest. _ I'll come find you tomorrow."

 

_ "Late _ tomorrow," Shiro rumbles, his tone leaving no room for argument. Griffin must agree, but Keith isn't paying attention to him. He keeps his eyes closed, leaning against Shiro and trusting the lion to keep him steady.

 

How drastically things can change in a few months, he muses.

 

"Come on, Keith," Shiro purrs against the shell of his ear, his warm breath making the wolf shiver. "Let's go get you cleaned up."

 

\--

 

"I'm perfectly capable of bathing on my own," Keith growls, but he doesn't actually do anything to stop Shiro's gentle touches. He's been stripped down to his boxers, his bloody, torn clothes dumped beside the trashcan in the kitchen. Honestly, his boxers don't look much better, but Shiro hasn't tried to tug those off yet.

 

Keith's not entirely sure what he'll do if the lion  _ does _ try.

 

He doesn't say anything about Shiro bringing him to his own home rather than Hunk's apartment. Part of Keith had already known where he was going to be taken, and since he hadn't tried to stop it, he figures there's no point in complaining now. He  _ will _ complain about being treated like a child -- or an invalid.

 

Shiro chuckles, warm and fond. "Let me," he murmurs, so fucking gentle and  _ sweet _ that Keith can't bring himself to put up a fight. He leans back against the side of the tub, shivering from the coldness of the plastic against his overheated skin. He's sitting in barely three inches of water that's already more red than pink, his skin twitching and shuddering every time Shiro pours warm water from a cup across his torn flesh. It hurts even as it feels nice, a confusing contrast that keeps Keith carefully where he is; he can't tell if he wants to lean into Shiro's hands or pull away, otherwise.

 

"Hey." Shiro's gentle tone makes him tilt his head back to look at the Alpha Fighter. The vulnerability and trust of the position aren't lost on the lion. Keith watches him breathe in sharply, his dark eyes even darker aside from a quick flare of burnished gold. When his free hand slowly and so, so very carefully cups the front of Keith's neck, he shivers but doesn't growl. Shiro dips his head, pressing his nose against Keith's forehead and breathing him in.

 

"You are the most exquisite creature I have ever met," he whispers, and Keith shies away from the praise even as he presses into Shiro's touch.

 

"I'm a fucking mess," he argues quietly, because it's true. He's never pretended to be anything other than what he is; he just wants to be  _ more _ than a killing machine. He thinks Shiro, out of everyone, can understand that.

 

"You're recovering," Shiro retorts evenly, his thumb slowly stroking up and down Keith's jugular, following the dip and bulge of the vein beneath his skin. "No one expects perfection in a day, Keith, or even a month. Trauma takes  _ years _ to recover from with professional help. You've had a few friends trying to do that job, and your own mind fighting you every step of the way."

 

"And baking," Keith adds, sardonic, but it melts away when Shiro smiles down at him, so patient and careful without tripping too close to condensating.

 

"And baking," the lion agrees. He licks Keith's damp bangs, purring quietly but powerfully, and drops his hand to tap the wolf's collarbone. "Alright, sit up. We're almost done here, I promise. Just a little more, and then you can get out."

 

"You're going to use salve and gauze, aren't you." It's not a question, because Keith already knows the answer. He sighs, longsuffering, but does his best to sit still until Shiro has cleaned and inspected every single scratch.

 

"I know, I know, I'm the worst." The lion helps him up and out of the tub, patting him dry carefully -- seemingly without concern for the blood still leaking from several of Keith's wounds. The towel soaks it all up and gets dropped by the toilet, forgotten and inconsequential.

 

The salve is cool against his skin, but not unpleasantly cold. It feels good, so Keith doesn't grumble, though he does give Shiro a grumpy, unimpressed scowl when the Fighter starts pressing gauze squares against the worst of the injuries. There's no point in trying for stitches; most of the wounds are either punctures, or they aren't deep enough to warrant them. Combined with Keith's inability to stay still and an Anisapien's unique healing rate, stitches would just be an annoyance more than a help.

 

That doesn't stop Shiro from taping gauze across his shoulder; from cutting out smaller patches for his ribs, or longer stripes for his abdomen. Keith does his best to stay still and not squirm. Shiro's touches are clinical and focused, but it still makes him feel flickers beneath his skin -- fissures of warmth that unfurl and spread until Keith is panting quietly. By the time Shiro is satisfied, he feels like he's  _ burning. _ When he catches the twinkle in the Alpha Fighter's eyes, he growls quietly.

 

"Fucking asshole."

 

"Now, now." Shiro's lion hand grips his nape, the pads rough against his hypersensitive skin. "Thank you, Keith," he purrs, their lips just barely brushing. "You did so well for me."

 

The tenuous thread of his control snaps, and Keith surges up against Shiro's bigger, broader body. The lion catches him, hands hot against his bare back; sliding down to grip his thighs and  _ lift. _ Keith whines at being jostled, his body spasming in protest, but he doesn't stop licking at Shiro's mouth until the Fighter's tongue drags against his.

 

Keith whines for an entirely different reason then, fisting a hand in the longer strands of hair on top of Shiro's head. He takes just as much as he gives, licking and nipping messily until his scent covers Shiro's face and there's no trace of Lotor's pets left. He knows that Shiro is doing the same to him; Keith might smell like blood and ointment and clean skin, but Acxa's scent still lingers in a few places, and those are the spots Shiro focuses on.

 

When the Fighter lifts him even higher, Keith can't muffle his yelp. He curls over the lion's head, scratching at his shoulders and keening when Shiro's rough tongue drags across his navel. It's such a strange sensation, but it's  _ good. _ Then Shiro nuzzles at the front of his boxers, licking playfully, and Keith bucks so hard he cries out in pain.

 

"Easy, pup, easy," Shiro rumbles soothingly, setting him back on his feet but keeping him close. Keith is trembling and overstimulated, breathing harshly against Shiro's shoulder while a broad hand strokes up and down his spine. It soothes him, helps him refocus and breathe through the cramps of overtaxed muscles until they relax all at once and he slumps. Shiro catches him, just like Keith knew he would; he breathes out a raspy laugh that makes the Fighter rumble in amusement.

 

"I'm sorry, Keith. I shouldn't have pushed you like that. I just find it very hard to control myself around you, sometimes. But that's no excuse." He nuzzles Keith's hair, licking his temple, and Keith licks his cheek in return. Shiro's smile is dazzling and makes him feel shy, so he pushes the other Anisapien away gently, pleased when the lion lets himself be moved without a fuss.

 

"There's always next time," he quips, giving Shiro a crooked smile that falters at the dark, eager heat of the Fighter's desire. Shiro's fingers drag along his uninjured shoulder, his claws applying just enough pressure to make Keith tremble.

 

"I've been patient this long," the Fighter purrs, his voice deep and richened by his desire. "I can wait for as long as it takes. As long as you need me to."

 

"Yeah," Keith rasps, leaning up to lick at Shiro's mouth because he  _ can't help himself. _ Shiro rumbles, nipping at his lip gently, and this time he's the one to gently nudge Keith away.

 

"Patience yields focus," he murmurs, smiling. It's rougeish and charming, and heavy with so much potential that Keith wants to bite at his mouth until he can drink down Shiro's passion and keep it for himself like the selfish, greedy thing he's learning he can be.

 

"Patience yields focus," he murmurs back, far more unsteady than Shiro, and the lion's answering smile is as brilliant and warming as the sun.


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a day in the life of Hunk's Heaven, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S DONE YOU GUYS OMG WHAT A RIDE.
> 
> Thank you all so, so much for the comments and the kudos and the understanding and the love. It's been overwhelming in the best of ways, and it blows my mind just how much you folks enjoyed this. It's been a joy for me to write from start to finish, and all of your comments make me as giddy and excited as a puppy.
> 
> Another shout-out to wrecked_anon for the idea of Shiro having a literal *mane* of hair when he lets it get long. I loved the idea so much I couldn't not try it out.
> 
> They were supposed to have sex, I swear they were, but they had other ideas apparently.
> 
> Anyway, THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH AGAIN I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH HNNNGGGHHHH.
> 
> ENJOY, YOU LOVELY, LOVELY BEINGS.

"Keith!"

 

Keith startles so hard it's a miracle he doesn't burn himself. He's been so focused on getting the ribs out of the oven that he didn't realize anyone else had come into the kitchen. Heaven's is a madhouse today, and they've all been yelling back and forth -- he never heard U6 and Z2 slip in through the side door, but here they are.

 

"Jesus," he barks, setting the pan down and turning to glare at the Garrison wolves. "The hell you trying to do, make me slam my head on the top of the oven?"

 

"No, never!" U6 is grinning widely, his golden eyes bright with excitement. He looks like a puppy with how much he's wiggling. Even Z2, who is usually much more reserved, is smiling.

 

"What's got you two so bushy tailed?" His ears flick forward as he looks them over. They both smell syrupy and sweet, their happiness almost a palpable thing. It sits warmly on Keith's tongue, and he can't help but smile crookedly at their enthusiasm.

 

"We've finally decided!" U6 comes closer, reaching toward him like he wants to drag Keith into a hug, though he hesitates until Keith tilts his head in a half-nod. The wolf hugs him so tightly that he grunts, patting awkwardly at the larger Anisapien's back and looking over at Z2. He raises his eyebrows, asking silently, and the wolf's answering grin is both pleased and sheepish.

 

"Names," he explains. "We've chosen our names. Sergeant Griffin approved them right before we came here. He wanted you to know first."

 

Keith grins widely, slapping U6 on the back before pushing him back. "That's great! What names did you decide on?"

 

He'd known a while back that U6 wanted to do this. They've talked about it more than a few times, after that first tense conversation in the desert when the Garrison wolf had asked him about his name. The curiosity had taken root fast, and spread quickly. He didn't think it would take this long, honestly, but he knows that choosing something like this for yourself, something that's  _ your, _ isn't a decision that can be made lightly.

 

U6 grins so wide his teeth show, and part of Keith will always bristle at the unintentional challenge, but he's had a year to unlearn a lot of things, and replace them with much, much happier memories. He grins back, his tail wagging, and starts plating up the ribs for Hunk while he waits.

 

"I chose Seth," U6 --  _ Seth _ \-- finally answers, once his excitement has bled over enough that  _ Keith _ is eager and impatient. He rolls it around in his head with a thoughtful frown, giving the Anisapien a taste of his own medicine, until he finally smacks Seth's arm with an approving chuff.

 

"It fits you," he says, and the wolf's sudden, crushing hug drives the air from his lungs. He hugs back, scratching between Seth's shoulder blades with a soothing hum when the younger Anisapien tucks his head against Keith's shoulder.

 

Sometimes it's hard to believe that these two are barely into their twenties. They're so big, and he's seen how ferocious they can be. And then there's moments like this, when Seth is muffling happy little whines against his shirt, that Keith can remember and appreciate just how young and ultimately  _ innocent _ they both are. They didn't suffer the same fate as he did. They were allowed to keep a measure of innocence despite their manifested purposes.

 

He can't begrudge them that, and he won't. Not anymore.

 

"What about you?" he asks, eyeing Z2 around Seth's bulk. The gray wolf hasn't seemed inclined to let him go yet, so Keith pats him again and allows the impromptu scenting.

 

"Zane," the darker wolf replies, his smile small and shy. His ears are forward and quivering, his tail swaying behind him. Keith mulls it over as well before he nods.

 

"They're good names. Congratulations, you two. I'm glad the Sergeant let you pick them."

 

"He encouraged us," Seth admits, finally detangling himself from Keith and stepping back with a sheepish grin. Keith brushes fur off his apron, shaking his head with fond exasperation.

 

"Don't worry about it. Did you two come all the way here just to tell me? You gonna tell the others, too? I'm sure Hunk will bawl like the proud mama he is."

 

It's no secret to any of them, just how attached Heaven's eccentric owner has become to the Garrison wolves in the last year. Ever since Lotor's arrest, and all of the fallout that came after that whole mess, Hunk has treated Seth and Zane with the same smothering, parental affection that he's shown Keith almost since day one. They've soaked it up like sponges, much to the human's delight.

 

"We wanted to tell you first," Zane says, wrapping his arms around Seth when the wolf leans against him. They smell so happy, the scent of buttercups and sweet fruits filling the air.

 

"Thank you." Keith finishes with the ribs just as the next oven timer beeps. "He's front of house, today; it's been crazy as shit. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to see you two though, so you'd better go say hi."

 

"We will." Seth rests his muzzle on Zane's shoulder. "Is Shiro still at Atlas? When will he be back?"

 

Keith sighs and shoos them toward the door. "Your guess is as good as mine. Go, go, leave me alone. I've got food to prepare. Go say your hellos. Get out of my kitchen."

 

They laugh but obey, leaving behind the scent of their happiness and contentment. Keith shakes his head, smiling, though it slips from his face when he turns back to preparing food; it doesn't take him long to get lost in thought.

 

Lotor's remaining Anisapiens had to go  _ somewhere. _ Out of the forty-three they'd found when the Garrison and local police raided his warehouse just outside of Phoenix -- almost four hours away, they'd told Keith -- two were too far gone to be saved. Another three died from their injuries within the week, but Allura and her father fought hard for custody of the remaining thirty-seven, and won. They took all of them to Atlas, the compound where Allura rehabilitated Shiro. The lion has been helping her off and on, leaving for weeks at a time sometimes. His absence is like an aching hole in Keith's chest, but he'll never ask Shiro to stop helping. Not when it means so much to him. Not when it's  _ working. _ Six of the Anisapiens were almost ready to be adopted out the last he'd heard -- however that works. Allura has ideas for that, too, though she hasn't shared them with Keith.

 

The sound of Hunk's loud, boisterous congratulations cuts through his melancholy, and Keith can't help but smile at the human's blubbering; so loud he can hear it all the way back in the kitchen, just like he knew he would.

 

\--

 

Keith is wearing a pair of loose sleeping shorts and a tank top, curled up on the couch, when he hears the roar. It's muffled by windows and walls, but it makes his pulse jump and prickles across his skin like a live current. He bolts for the door, ignoring Hunk's affectionate chuckle -- completely ignoring the collar resting on the top of a kitchen cabinet.

 

He hasn't worn it in months anyway.

 

The sun has just set, the lingering heat of the day dissipating quickly. He's barefoot, his arms and legs exposed to the chill, but that doesn't stop Keith. He runs for the outskirts of town, slipping through the alleys so he doesn't run into anyone in the literal sense of the word.

 

He hears the roar again, loud and searching -- commanding his attention, his  _ everything. _ Keith follows, he always will, panting with excitement as he races through the desert toward the canyon.

 

Shiro roars again just as he comes into Keith's line of sight, his head tilted back and his dark, silky mane of hair tumbling freely around his shoulders. Keith wants to whine at the sight he makes against the backdrop of the canyon, strong and proud and  _ his, _ but he doesn't have the breath for it.

 

He leaps, and Shiro catches him, Keith's momentum taking them both to the ground. They tumble away from the edge of the canyon, a tangle of limbs and burning mouths. Shiro is purring, so powerful Keith can feel it reverberating through his  _ core. _ The lion pins him in the sand, biting and licking at his mouth until Keith opens up for him. He rolls his entire body up into Shiro's, pressing them together and wrapping a leg around the Alpha Fighter's waist to drag him closer.

 

"Fuck, Keith," Shiro growls, rocking down against him. Keith pants, whining low in his throat once he has enough air for it, and the Fighter chuckles against his lips. His lion hand cradles the back of Keith's head, long fingers slipping through his sweaty, tangled hair. Each gentle tug makes him shiver and keen, and Shiro shudders in response, purring when Keith bites at his mouth and chin.

 

"How are the pups?" he rumbles, tucking his nose against the base of Keith's neck and breathing in deeply. His rough tongue drags up, following the line of Keith's jugular to the point of his chin. He trembles, his head tilted back as far as he can get it; his eyes fluttering closed as Shiro goes about scenting every inch of him.

 

"Seth and Zane, now," he mumbles, burying his fingers in Shiro's thick, silky mane and tugging. The Alpha Fighter purrs in pleasure, rubbing his forehead against Keith's stomach -- nosing his tank top up and out of the way to lick across his ribs and down his abdomen. "How --  _ ahhn  _ \-- how's everything at Atlas?"

 

"Four of the Fighters asked to stay, to help Allura with rehabilitating others. We've taken in another group from an uncovered ring, so any help is appreciated." Shiro nips at the arch of his hipbone, where their rolling has tugged his waistband down. Keith hums, arching into the sharp pleasure-pain as his eyes roll back.

 

"The Garrison took on the other two, a bear and a cheetah, to help spread awareness," Shiro continues, slowly making his way back up Keith's chest. He scrapes his fangs gently over a nipple, which makes Keith yelp and arch sharply. Shiro supports him, his human hand burning against the dip of Keith's spine.

 

"They're going to help teach simulations classes with Coran."

 

"That's great," Keith growls through clenched teeth. It is, it really is -- he's so pleased with how Allura's dream is taking shape. It means so many good things.

 

But he also hasn't seen Shiro in almost two months, and the last thing he wants to do right now is chat about rehabilitation for hours.

 

Shiro laughs when he rolls them over, stretching out beneath Keith and watching him with dark, hungry eyes. His hands drop to the wolf's hips, longer fingers just barely pressing against the base of his tail. Keith twists, chasing that almost-pleasure with a frustrated grumble, and the Fighter laughs again.

 

"Fuck you," he growls, leaning down to nip the tip of Shiro's nose. Shiro laughs louder, delighted, and reaches just that last few inches to give Keith what he wants.

 

"Oh, pup," he rumbles, offering his throat for Keith to lick and nuzzle, "the things I have planned for you."

 

Keith pants, pleasure burning through him with every press and stroke of Shiro's clever, knowing fingers. "Think you have the energy, old man?" he teases breathlessly, biting the side of Shiro's neck just to hear his low, growling purr.

 

"You have no idea, sweetheart."

 

Keith really, really does, and he can't fucking wait.


End file.
